Letters for the Future, pt. 1

Meditations on the management of being human.

Dear Despair,

I know you. I’ve known you my entire life. We are old friends. Friends? Anytime you walk into a room, you take in all the air. You make it hard to breathe. Not impossible. Painful.

Sometimes, when you visit, I wonder if you know how much pain you cause. I wonder if you like the way you hurt me. I don’t think so. No, I don’t think so.

Last night, when you visited, there was something in your eye that I hadn’t seen before, though perhaps it had been there all along. It was as though you were asking me to come closer.

Against my better judgment, I listened. I came closer, creeping and fearful. You stank. You were sour. I wrinkled my nose but did not back away. No, I came close enough to touch you, every needled inch. You needed me to hold you. And when I took you in my arms, I felt the other parts of you nearer to me than home.

You are my brother’s sorrow. You are my sister’s fear. You are my sibling’s racing heart. You are my elders’ widened eyes. You are a history book. You are beleaguered. You are frightened. You are a world braced for impact.

I felt your arms slink around me, pulling me in tighter. You felt hungry. It would have been easy to let you eat me whole. Maybe I should have let you, if only to help you feel a little less alone. None of us are meant to be alone, not even you.

Instead, I sat and held your hand. Staring at the space between our fingers, I saw a shimmer, as though a candle was burning between our palms. There was no heat, but the light grew brighter the longer I looked. You did not want to let go. You did not let me see what made us shine. You wanted to tell me something but didn’t seem to know how. You gripped me tighter. You made my knuckles crack. I didn’t try to escape. I focused on the light.

In time, it faded, and you let me go. It was one of those rare occasions where you left on your own. As you were leaving, I saw you were a little smaller in the doorway than when you’d arrived. I wondered what it meant. You waved goodbye for the first time. I wonder what that meant, too.

What were you trying to tell me? What didn’t you want me to see? If I told you I loved you, would you have shown me? Or were you trying to keep me safe? Safe from what? I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything anymore.

As I write this, I still feel the place on my palm where we touched, hold it to my cheek, and think of you. When you return, as you always do, I’ll hold your hand again and watch for the light.

Now and then,
Bailey