Dear Leader

Dear Leader,

We are writing you as two of your most devoted followers, filled with excitement at the prospect of seeing and hearing you in person soon at your first rally in months. We have missed your rallies and the freedom they gave us to passionately express our admiration for you and what you've given to this great country. We understand that we will have to sign a waiver that we will not blame you or sue you if we should contract The Covid at the rally, being so close to all your other acolytes. We understand the risks we will all take, but it'll be worth it. We are so privileged to be able to sign this waiver and show our loyalty to you, to God and to the country in His and your hands, and we just want you to know that drowning in our own fluids or becoming permanently disabled as a result would be an honor. We do have a question, though, pertaining to any members of our community who will not be attending the rally. Would they be able to sue us if we carry the virus back? Would they be able to sue you? Please ask Your Great Attorney General Barr to tell us what to do regarding this. We are at your disposal.

See you soon and God Bless America and You!

Tanner and Karen Jones

So, how long has it been since you've received a real letter in the mail? The only ones I receive are, ironically, from Anthem Blue Cross, and they always say the same thing and they always include a third piece of paper that lists the ten thousand languages available for translation even though that must cost a pretty penny and they already know that we speak English as a primary language in this health care-exhaustive family. Today, though, I got a real letter in the mail from Rebecca. It was sealed with golden WAX, a honeybee over the flap, and there were stickers all over it, including one that read OPEN ME. I didn't want to break the seal, so I used a tarnished silver pointy letter opener that has been sitting in a pencil box since the last time I got a letter thirty years ago or so. Before I did that, I turned the envelope over and over and admired, even, the stamps. Can you believe she put a Wallace Stevens stamp on there and a fabulous Charles Demuth? Here's a poem by Wallace Stevens that a boy I knew wrote the title of on a tiny slip of paper and left on my bed in my dorm room, about as long ago as I received a real letter in the mail. It's for you today, Rebecca:

In the Carolinas

The lilacs wither in the Carolinas.
Already the butterflies flutter above the cabins.
Already the new-born children interpret love
In the voices of mothers.

Timeless mother,
How is it that your aspic nipples
For once vent honey?

The pine-tree sweetens my body
The white iris beautifies me.

Sometimes, especially when I do so in the early hours of the morning, I think of this blog as my "correspondence," in the way that women of leisure might have in the olden days. I sit down at my desk, raise my hands over the keyboard and begin.

Thank you, Rebecca, for the envelope and the stamps, for the perfect card inside and for the letter in your beautiful, sexy handwriting. I've written a blog post in gratitude, but I can't wait to wrap my own fingers around a real pen and write you back.

Dear You,

When we were freshmen in college, your mother died after a long struggle with cancer. I believe she might have been sick off and on for most of your growing up years, and since you were an only child and a particularly sensitive and intelligent girl, I imagine that you matured and grew stronger and wiser than the rest of us at a far earlier age. When I think back on that year when your mother died, I shrink a bit, inside, and my heart breaks. You were only eighteen years old when you lost your mother. I can remember getting the key to your tiny single room in the dorm and tidying it up with another friend, anticipating your arrival back at school after your mother's funeral. I knew nothing of such loss. Your mother would never see you graduate from college, find your first job, marry your dear husband and give birth to your own daughter. She would not be with you, either, when your father died too early last year and left you truly an only child. She would not know that you have grown into an amazing and generous woman, a beautiful mother and faithful wife. She would not know you as a steadfast friend whose heart knows no boundaries.

You reached across the miles and years and sent me a ticket to come east and join you and our best friends from college for a weekend trip that proved to be the best vacation I've had in at least a decade. A couple of days ago, we exchanged some emails. I wrote I'm having a bit of a blue period because Sophie turns 18 tomorrow. It's such a milestone and then it's not. I feel every one of the eighteen years and wonder how many more there will be. We're having a big birthday bash for her on the beach on Sunday late afternoon, so that'll be fun, but to tell you the truth I feel a little lonely in my grief/loss/etc. Hard to explain but perhaps easy to imagine.

It will soon be your father's birthday and the first anniversary of his death. You replied, Oh, I know . . . I've followed your blog all week and my heart aches and sings for Sophie (and you) at the same time.  I have a little something special in mind to send Sophie.  I thought of it earlier in the week but haven't been able to follow through.  Just a little something.  To bring you comfort, as well.  I understand exactly the lonely bit.  You hate to bring it up and yet you want everyone to know and remember and understand and empathize.  So as a result I tend to hole up alone so I don't have to wish people understood why I'm seeming a bit removed or overly chatty.  You get it, I know.

I read your words sitting in my car in a parking lot of a grocery store. They took my breath away and made me cry, two cliches that certainly don't do justice to the enormous gratitude I felt in reading them. Part of living an extraordinary life -- and I imagine that most of us live extraordinary lives -- is acknowledging and accepting hardship, grief and loss, shaping and draping them over your bones and tissues. And when my bones are heavy and tissues bleed, what sustains me are words and the connections they conjure. Your words arrived at the exact right moment and were arranged as a perfect witness, simple and graceful.

Thank you, dear you. I am blessed by your friendship and can only hope to return the love back to you in equal measure.

Love,
Elizabeth

P.S. The sandalwood bracelet with green amethyst stones is beautiful. Sandalwood is said to bring clear perception to the wearer, and the green amethyst, inner peace. When I see it on Sophie's small wrist, I will be reminded, again, of your witness and grace.