Dear Francis,
It has occurred to me as I sit in this florescent classroom, that the reason you aren’t here is because you are spooning in the grass. So as you take in your vitamin D and the smell of fresh earth, think about this: Home. Residence. House.
We are trying to show these words as an emotional state and I am starting to realize that the only house I want to reside in, are the ones in the hearts of the people that I love. That the dollhouse tucked beneath their rib cage is the only place I call home.
I am starting to realize that I don’t see words anymore, I see people. That when we talk about diction, word choice, that when you know it’s right it’s because you could never chose another word for that one, that that is love, in every moment. I am starting to realize that the reason I put pen to paper is to make the house in my heart bigger. I want these rooms to be a home for someone, and if I take care with my diction, use care with my diction, care with my diction, I’ll write each person through my door. There are windows here. So if I say you are walking poetry, be sure it is because I am starting to realize that each quirk in you, in others, is exactly the right word, there is no other. (So shouldn’t we all share our word choice, welcome mats out, and bring our houses together?) Let’s start with this:
When I was born the nurses named me dancing hands. My middle name is from my grandfather, and when I told you to go spoon in the grass it was because I knew you would find poetry in the sun, and her curves.
Sincerely,
Jessica
PS: At the time, I didn’t realize I’d written you a love poem. I thought that I was merely writing observations made about the world and words, when trying to take notes for you in your absence during class. What I didn’t realize was that I was writing what I had observed in you.
While I was in a relationship that left me feeling unexceptional, questioning whether I’d ever find a connection that was truly satisfying, you told about what it was like to be with someone you really cared about.
Of losing time to the lamps of soft bedroom lighting and curved door frames
Of finding forests in the suburbs and racing next to streams just to catch up with the beat of two racing hearts
You told me, “The Story” of how you met her
Love spot light lit on stage that paralleled the play’s plot, culminating to an ending that was beyond poetry in that it was real
It made me crinkle to see someone so happy, so happy to be with her
And I was happy to be with you, jumping stones off Japanese gardens, talking of our “dork forking” the buffet of skills and interests we had – photography, steel pan, ballroom dancing
Finding the poetry in late night concrete, muscle shirt wearing professors and snatches of dialogue from busy campus streets
Later, we made a duet. Fitting together two poems so perfectly it was like magic, like puzzles, like cities built in hours, it was a reflection of the connection between us that was stronger to me than the one I was supposed to be feeling with a boy who would tell me that he loved me. Stronger then any I felt with the people in vast crowds of the immense university that I had stumbled into.
You were showing me what I was missing.
You were showing me what it was that I wanted.
It may have seemed like I wanted you, but if this caused any confusion, we never showed it.
So, yes. I wrote you a love poem.
A love to poem to the way you showed me not to settle for anything less than a story, for being my friend when I was lonely, and making the terrifying new world of UBC seem a bit more like home.
Now that you’ve been gone, I want to tell you that I’m crinkling from being so happy, from being so happy to be with him. I’ve found my story.
And I hope you’re still finding forests in the suburbs, carving your heartbeat into flat stones and skipping them over the water, finding their endings to be exactly where you wanted.
