An open letter

Dear ______________________,

I am writing you today because I have no one else to write to. I am also writing you to lament that the art of letter writing has long since passed. No one does it anymore. Only because they feel they have to. Some cordial process one must not abandon.

As in the art of the essay, I am going to break this letter down into three parts. Part one will be pleasant small talk about the weather and the family, while paragraph two will continue existential blather. To close, I will ask pointless questions that will never be answered. Because you are no one anyways.

This is the 154th letter I have written you in my adulthood. At some point, I can’t remember the exact date, I changed trying to call you with vagrant and frankly pathetic cries as I was receiving no response. Though everyone told me through my youth that if I said my prayers, really wanted to talk to you, you would answer. I was skeptical — just like we all are about Santa Claus and Tooth Fairies, but I went along with it anyways, because who am I to doubt adults?

I assumed, perhaps, one day through my tears, a more formal approach would elicit answers and conversation around my questions. Even then, writing, in my best cursive (which, we know is not that great), folding the blue lined paper (and you never see that exact shade of blue anywhere else, do you?) with the hole punches into thirds, placing gently into the dollar store envelopes (it’s all we could afford) and going to write the address…

However, no matter how many letters I wrote, and placed gently, swollen eggs, into triangle-folded corners of envelopes, I never had the courage to send them. Where could I send them? Where were you? How did everyone know and trust your location when there was no postal code?

They slipped into a worn-edged shoe box (my only pair of high tops; size 5) and remained. A record of all of my calls and disdain left silent and ink-soaked.

I guess, as I slowly started to realize as I met more people, went to more places, and saw more things, I just wanted to know why. Why was I here, and what was I supposed to do with that?

Now the trend is gratefulness. And, yes — I know I am fortunate. I have been able to create (or, fall into? That’s one of those existential questions (see para 2) about who creates our condition, and how much is self vs. circumstance?) a life for myself that really, I can’t stick up my nose to. Well, I could probably dust more, but that’s for another conversation, perhaps?

In closing, I am still humbly waiting for a response. Feel free to give your thoughts on the aforementioned note, or any of the previous 154.




2 responses to “An open letter”

  1. This is an original and haunting piece. Seems simple but isn’t. The details of the blue paper, the holes, the dollar store envelopes, the 154 letters now in a shoe box- all moved me. What would you discover about yourself if you re-read all those “letters”? What might you write if you chose to fill in the blanks of your life in between those letters?

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Deep thoughts here, and 154 of them tucked away into that shoe box. Waiting for the response(s) makes me wonder how many more letters will be added to the others. Will a response arrive in the form of a letter?

    Liked by 1 person

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