I know this letter is out of the blue and maybe I shouldn’t write it. In fact, I know I shouldn’t write it, but I’ve had this aching in my chest for a month and when your soul hemorrhages for so long, words are the only panacea one can turn to.
Your wife looks lovely. The older she becomes, the more regal she glows. I remember pictures of you two dating, the rush of young love – unfamiliar, expolorative love- and the huge smile you both shared when you sent me links of your wedding.
And I smiled for you…happy that you were happy.
I’m doing wonderfully. My husband and I are fine. He helped me through my rough times and taught me to love again, trust and laugh. He opened my eyes to passion and the giggling there after. I learned the importance that a solid match of footsie and TF2 go hand in hand.
You emailed me recently. It was gentle, vague and informative. You’re coming to my neck of the woods soon and you’d like to see me. Not the both of you; just you. Not us; me. Perhaps you meant your wife and my husband, but I am not one to assume anything. Perhaps that’s ignorant on my part.
I’m torn. How are you?
We met over a decade ago. I was a fresh, young, college student and you, 7+ years my senior, were already trekking out into the world. You were going to take the globe by storm; a strong man…tall in stature, fiercely artistic, eyes sparkling and with easy, booming laughter. We both still had a bit of 90s’ kid in us; we blogged. We raged poetically on AIM. We fell in love with the innocent words we poured out digitally; laughing, reaching and snickering; waiting for the next post, the next IM, the next ping on mIRC.
But I was a broken woman, still suffering from silent scars that were too embarrassing to tell you, or anyone. I still can’t now and it’s been nearly 20 years. No one believed me when I tried to get the justice I was entitled to. Instead of those rallying to my aid, my battle torn hands were the only allies I had. Instead of hearing the clear bell of truth, my voice was smothered and chided. No one believed me and, after enduring so many painful connections, I ran from a home that had little comfort and a life that only had dark corners. I am sorry I ran, but I had to.
California was the destination of my healing pilgrimage, of unadulterated self love and forgiveness. I had to come to grips that being Black was not a crime and being a woman was not a curse, despite what mainstream society shoved down our collective gullets. I had to allow myself the right to be loved as a human being; not a fetish, not an experiment, but as a vulnerable homo-sapien.
But you still called. And you still wrote; but not emails this time…letters.