an envelope arrives in the mail.
i never know what to expect.
it smells like you.
like the old house and all of the old belongings.
it used to be novelty to have an envelope written in his hand.
now it is commonplace.
you don’t write anymore.
you don’t think to write.
now when i see his penmanship
i am reminded of what i am losing in you
along with what i am gaining in him.
there is some nesting going on, but in reverse.
like the opposite of welcoming a baby.
closets are being emptied.
memories are being stirred and treasures are being found.
these treasure, your memories, come to find me on a sunny saturday morning when i have better things to do than sit on the couch and cry while holding a piece of you, holding a note in your handwriting, holding your youth and your future all in one box.
there’s no note from dad.
no explanation, because none is needed.
we are doing these things because you are dying.
and so i sit here holding the lace from your wedding.
the blue garter and the sixpence from your shoe.
a time capsule from 1966.
i can’t deny the fact that i’m not ready to lose you
but these days it seems you’re already lost.
i awoke at 3am bumbling around to find a pen and a headlamp.
dear self from five years ago,
i know you feel scared, and alone, and full of anxiety. you don’t know me yet, but i wanted to let you know it’s going to be ok. meaning: it’s going to suck big time, but you are strong. stronger than you know.
stay true to your self. self is you. you’ll find her soon enough. follow her lead and your passions will bloom unknowingly into a career.
it’ll be ok. i promise.
in my dreams i’m looking for my own time capsule.
if this is what i tell the me i used to be,
what would my future self tell the me i am now?