Coffee: Sumatra Medium Dark, Trader Joe’s Brand
I got your letter at 9:00 a.m. on a blustery Saturday. It was the fourth thing in the mailbox, buried under ads. I took the blue envelope upstairs to the dining room and set it on the table. Then I went about making coffee – grinding beans, pouring water, loading the machine.
I tried to be careful peeling it open. There’s a certain sound an envelope makes. It’s sort of like a rack of ribs that you’ve been slow cooking. Pull, pull, pull, feel it give, a bit sticks to the bone.
When I got the letter out, I read it two times and put it aside. I set myself to reading Murakami and working on my novel. I ate a bowl cereal. I got full on black coffee. A casual morning. My favorite kind of morning.
At 11:00, I read your letter again. This time I paid close attention to the paper and the ink and the spots you wrote over. It’s funny how a thing feels so much different when it’s said in black ink. It’s funny how transient a conversation can be.
There was this French artist named Sophie Calle who found a man’s address book on the streets of Paris. After returning it anonymously (and making a copy), she went around interviewing all the different contacts to get a picture of the owner’s life. Sometimes it feels like that with you. I know you from pictures and old memories. I know you by the occasional letter, little bright fires that show off bits of us. But we’re constantly changing, as is everyone, so each little fire has a different viewpoint. Lit windows in a midnight building. Every night, a different pattern of lights is on.
Thank you for the letter, and for being a part of me and my life, however many miles and hours and identities you are away.
Novel Count: 28,637
Currently Reading: Killing Commendatore, Haruki Murakami
Support Relief for Family Suffering at the Border – RAICES DONATION CAMPAIGNFrom the land of red clay, and lottery worship
“The last time I saw him, I found he had aged prematurely. He had white hair…” What image does [Paul] have of him? “The image of a child forgotten in an airport.”Sophie Calle, The Address Book