Please Be Mine

December 24, 2024

december 24, 2024

Dear Michelle,

Writing that felt weird. I want to write Shelly but I shouldn’t assume you still go by your high school nickname. Do you? Still go by your nickname? I guess you can let me know. Or don’t. You’re not required to respond to this letter, if you don’t want to.

It’s been six years since I’ve seen you face-to-face. If I’ve seen you more recently, then I have to apologize because I don’t remember it in the slightest. To be frank, I don’t remember much from the past six years. I went down a dark hole and I’m only finally climbing out of it.

I will admit though, the first thing I thought of was you.

The last time I saw you was at my mother’s funeral. I remember noticing your hair was blonde, and how it made your green eyes look like shiny limes. Are you still a blonde? I thought it looked really nice.

As for what you said to me at my mother’s funeral…I remember none of it. Besides noticing your hair, the only other thing I remember from that day was this tiny brown speck in the floorboard beneath my shoes. The spot was remarkable. It was the perfect shape of a donkey, and I remember just staring at it. People came and gave their condolences, but my only focus was on that donkey. I wondered if it was destiny that a donkey was in the floorboard of a dusty church reception hall, given that Jesus traveled into Jerusalem on a donkey and all of that. My therapist says my obsession with this donkey was a coping mechanism for my grief. I believe her. She tends to be right about everything.

After you said whatever you said, you handed me a slip of paper. I shoved it in the pocket of my trousers and I think I gave you a hug, but my mind goes blank after that. I never opened that slip of paper. Not until today. I’m going through my mom’s house, organizing all of our stuff and getting rid of things, and I found those trousers. They were wrinkled on the floor, right where I left them six years ago. That day, after the funeral, I’d stripped off my suit and gotten in my childhood bed, and I didn’t get out of it for two days straight. When I did, I ate an entire frozen pizza. Still frozen.

The slip of paper contained your address, but not your phone number. I texted your old number but it bounced back, so I’m assuming you have a new one. So here I am instead. Writing you a letter.

I’m back in town, for the time being. I’m cleaning out Mom’s house and getting it ready to sell, then I’m not really sure where I’ll go. I spent the first two years in Boston, then came home to clean myself up a bit. It’s a long story…and maybe one that you don’t care to hear. But I’m okay now.

How are you? Are you still playing the flute? I haven’t picked up my saxophone in years. I guess it makes me sad. But I did find it the other day, collecting dust and being completely neglected, both things my mother told me not to do in high school. She told me to keep practicing, to drill those marching band numbers until I could play them in my sleep. I think if I picked it up, I could still play some of them.

I will stop ranting now. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry for never saying anything to you that day. You’d flown back to Massachusetts from school, missing class so you could be there, and I couldn’t even manage a single word in your direction. I’m not even sure if this letter will get to you now, you probably graduated and don’t live in California anymore. I hope you don’t hate me. I hope you have a lovely Christmas. I hope you’re happy.

Feel free to burn this,

Jake