In Another Life, I am a Worm, and You Help Me Cross the Sidewalk

Dear Peanut Butter Sandwich Man, 

I am a little bit tipsy on Christmas wine, so it's promising to assume that when I wake up in the morning, I will either be freaking out that I sent this to you or bitter that I lost my gumption and kept it to myself. I am eating a peanut butter sandwich, and I wish we were sitting on a porch. All I can think about is you– probably because you asked me if I wanted a porch, and I told you the exact kind of porch with a bench swing I wanted, and because you always have a sandwich on hand.

My thoughts run around teasing me like rampant laughter when I've had too much, or really any mulled wine. I know some things, but I want to know more: I want to know you. Will you let me know you? 

I think that I would be so happy as a bear– would you be content just roaming around? What are your thoughts on vegetables? Which ones do you rave about, and which ones do you hate? What do you make of honey bees or jazz music— particularly Miles Davis and Chet Baker (I freak out for good melancholy jazz)? 

I can start. I love sunrises, especially pink ones; the way the light colors everything when I'm out on the water makes everything like seeing through rose-colored glasses. There is a tree in America that, for some reason, reminds me of my grandfather. I like to read under it because it makes me feel like he's sitting there with me. It made me happy that you loved trees, especially when you agreed moody willows are the best. My favorite flowers are violets— I once wrote an essay about violets being the color of love. Now, whenever I am going through something, God always puts a patch of violets in my path, and I remember I am known and loved by Love Himself. 

I read the Steve Jobs biography that you said it was your favorite on our first date. You said it made you feel better that all of the brilliant people are a little weird and dysfunctional, too. Did you read the Treveleyan copy with the watercolor I lent you the last time I saw you? I love watercolor. Maybe you'll show me your paintings sometime if we are ever in the same place at the same time again.  

I love looking at painted hands; there is something so beautiful about them to me. I used to watch my grandfather smoke, and I could replicate the lines of his old hands exactly with charcoal. I could paint my mother's tan spotted hands from her days in the sun ripping through clementine peels in my kitchen. My palms are rough and blistered right now from all the rowing I've had to do to try to forget you– not painting-worthy. I think hands interest me because they share the stories of our lives. 

I love that fresco in the Sistine Chapel, where God is reaching for Adam, and if he would only extend his last digit a little further, they would touch. My gaze was arrested by the hands in all of the paintings in the Dublin gallery– there is something distinctly human about a hand and about offering it to another. 

Remember when we gave our hands to each other? I have never let anyone before you hold my hand, and I am not sure if I'll let anyone again for a long time– I don't want to ruin the story my hands had with yours. I know this doesn't work out any way I try to bend, but I wanted to say that I think about our interlaced fingers. 

I have a final and important line of questioning: do you like worms? If there was a worm or a snail, would you pick it up and help it get to where it was trying to go? Sometimes, I feel like a worm– relying on the kindness of strangers to get where I am trying to go without just flat-out dying. If I was a worm, I would feel safe in your hands. 

Fondly,

The Girl Who Wanted to Know You