White Envelopes
Her handwriting reveals a certain child-like,
youth. Mostly in her red sharpie letters
with that particularly cute dot above the "i"
in my name and the varying sizes between
the "R" and the "d" in my address.
The very same handwriting leaves a perfume trail
of mature elegance and wisdom. Each word
reveals a thought process and her breath and
voice linger between each line.
Handwritten letters in matching white envelopes
addressed with red or orange sharpie letters.
In reality they all say the same thing. On the
outside, at least, because I can't yet bring
myself to re-open them.
Her letters remind me of her child-like giggle and
beautiful young smile.
Her letters remind me of her brilliant mind and the
way her spoken words serve to take care of
me and ask me to take care of her at the same time.
Of course those are just her letters --no, the words those
letters form speak a language I do not breathe.
Those sentences describe a world full of situations
and realities I do not understand.
These letters say lots of things. So many things. All these
words and sentences and meanings and truths
and lies and words and words and words. No,
these letters don't really say anything.
Not to me. Not from her.
It is her handwriting alone that reveals her youthful glow
and it is her handwriting that whispers her voice
in my ear. I can hear it in that messy orange heart
that seals the white envelope and the way I imagine
her closing each letter and addressing it to me.
What I hold onto is the voice and the breath and that damn
messy heart. But her words have left me. Just as she
left me. And the envelopes are closed because I do not
breathe her language and I do not walk in her world.
Her handwriting is all I have left although I do not know why
I even hang onto these. Her words do not say anything.
Not to me. Not from her. These are just a bunch of
white sealed envelopes.
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