For Hayden

A letter to a kindred spirit.

Dear Hayden,

Like you, I have set myself adrift again. If you would let me, I would give voice to the tumult of your emotions.

I imagine you in a long bus headed west. An elder sits a few rows in front of you with no headphones to listen to the nineties’ R&B his late wife loved, so he plays it out loud from his phone speakers. At first, his commuting neighbors were annoyed, but they knew better than to make a fuss. Then, you give him the headphones you picked up for cheap from the Walgreens in Pittsburgh.

For the second of many days to come, I sit alone in my wonderful apartment. Behind it is the Korean church whose playground I would cut through to go and see my ex-girlfriend. In front of it is a big, beautiful front yard with an ancient, gargantuan tree for shade. I sit in a nice chair and read under it most nights. My best buddy moved back to his parents’ last Sunday. She’ll be back here most weekends to keep moving things and help my roommate and I move house, too. It is kind of her.

My other man, the apple of humanity’s eye, is in the wind as usual. To be fair, he warned us of his ephemerality. I believed him and cursed him for it until I truly noticed how much better his quality of life is when he is away from this place. In the winters, he paces the halls wondering what could be awry with him or with the world. In the warmth, he tries his best to play mortal but I can tell. I can tell. He comes alive.

And so I am alone. Despite this, I am still doing well. Soon, it will be time for me to go. It will be sad. I feel that with each passing moment, this place is less and less mine. Tomorrow, our landlord will come with strangers and they will appraise my rooms, my stairs, my bed, and my walls. They will be buffeted by the sparkling laughter and the lost board game pieces and the labors of love, and they will not stagger. Unfeelingly, they will replace my people with theirs. They will fill my ruts. They will erase the masterpieces I drew on the kitchen counters.

But do not pity me, girl. I chose this. Once, this town was full of me. When I returned to the trees, all of my people were here. One Christmas, I looked up and realized that I had not grown up with any of these people, and yet still they regarded me as they would their own families. They have moved on, and so must I.

This place, at the edge of town, next to a busy main road, was where I huddled them in close. Much had already slipped away, but my lover and my man and my confidant remained. We danced and sang and made merrier than I had ever been in all of my life. Still, over the months and years, I determined to let each of them go. I held them captive in my heart, all the while knowing they were never truly mine. I greased the hinges on the door, but they still squeak. Now, I play for time. I pack my things. I shuffle on.

I hope they curse me for not fighting harder for them; it will help to keep me near them. Even now, as they coruscate, I stretch my arms and lift my head and close my eyes so I can catch even a wink of them, and I do. I feel them blanketing me and I sleep well.

What of you and yours? How far have you gone? When will you stop? What of your faith is left? Did any of this ring true?

Maybe not. I hope you will forgive me for that.

Will I see you again?

I’ll be watching the bus stops.

Just as much yours as you are mine,

A.V.