Friday, June 8, 2012

(One of Many) Letters to Dead People

Dear Helen,
I saw you riding the bus the other day.

I was dreaming, but there you were.

I dreamed I was stood on a rain wet corner, it was pouring down, and I was wearing glasses and everything was water streaked, but I still saw you, your vibrant purple hair and red red lips through the streaks. You smiled at me and I felt it (all the way) at the bottom of my kidneys.

I flashed through dinners we won't ever have: Bright Sundays at my grandfather's house that smelled like cooking meat long after our cups of tea had been drunk. Our tea drank in plush, gold colored chairs; chatting and watching BBC4 on a sun washed television, the volume very low indeed.

I longed for our missing, damp Sunday afternoons in Stoke Poges. Walking in bright wellies and mottled blue hooded sweaters through muddy and verdant fields, down a foggy horse trail with our dogs loose and barking after rabbits but us not worrying about what they caught.

The thrill on your face as a young fox eyed us from under a hedge.

England.

A missed connection, like on craigslist.org for whatever city dreams are tied to these days.

I hope you're well.

Love of All Kinds,
Ernest