Dear me
"My dear, if you are reading this five years from now, I hope the kettle is singing."
"Whatever happens tomorrow, or for the rest of my life, I'm happy now because I love you." — Harold and Maude
My dear,
if you are reading this
five years from now,
I hope the kettle is singing.
I hope the curtains are still half-open.
Perhaps there is a ring
resting on your finger.
Or there is only the pale imprint of one,
removed while washing dishes
or watering herbs or kneading dough.
Perhaps there are books stacked hurriedly on tables,
blankets draped over chairs,
photographs tucked into frames.
Perhaps there are still guitars leaning against the wall.
Perhaps there are still scraps of poetry sleeping in drawers.
Perhaps the coffee is still occassionally dreadful.
I hope the kisses are not.
I hope he still looks at you as
though the moon has momentarily mistaken
your face for its own.
I hope you still pause, more often than not,
simply to marvel at him.
Not because he has become more amazing,
but because he always has been.
I hope he still reaches for your hand
without looking.
And he hopefully still knows precisely how you take your tea.
I hope he still steals your blankets
and apologises without sounding particularly sorry.
I hope he still listens.
I hope you do too.
I wonder whether you still remember
how frightened you once were.
How you worried that time would change you,
or him,
or distance would drain you both,
or familiarity would quietly steal
the splendour from loving him.
I hope you know better now.
I hope the years have taught you
what the poets were trying to say all along,
love, when it is tended faithfully,
does not grow smaller.
I know he remains
your favourite person.
I hope you remain his.
And I hope that,
every so often,
you remember the girl writing this letter.
The girl who lay awake long after midnight,
her heart so hopelessly, helplessly full of love,
it seemed impossible for her ribs to contain it.
The girl who could scarcely imagine such luck.
The girl who had not yet learned,
joy can be just as impactful as sorrow.
Tell her she was right.
The waiting was worth it.
Tell her the wanting softened into belonging.
Tell her that the life she dreamed of did not vanish
when daylight peeked around the windowsill.
Tell her that love remained.
Not the fever of it.
Not merely the fire of it.
A glowing hearth instead of a spark.
A scintillating star instead of a shooting one.
And if, five years from now,
he happens to be sitting nearby,
busy with some small and wonderfully domestic task,
turn to him for me.
Study his face.
Listen for his laughter
Take his hand.
Kiss him once upon the forehead.
Then twice.
And remind yourself,
with all the awe you can gather,
that there was once a version of you who longed for this life
so fiercely, she turned her yearning into poetry.
And the poetry answered.
A letter to myself for when I am older. When I should be still with my muse, in our own apartment this time, living together in the capital city and enjoying both the mundane and the bad and the good days. All the days.
It makes me weirdly emotional, the concept to write a poem to my future self, knowing I always imagined not having a future at all. And now, I have someone I want in that future besides myself, too.
How blessed I am.