Books and Letters: On missing what is and isn’t.

This morning, I miss every book I’ve ever read, every scrap of paper I ever drew on, every toy I’ve ever and never owned.  This morning, I find myself in the wake of the meanest letter I’ve ever written, but didn’t send.  A twenty-nine year accumulation of grievances stored up into one poignant document, written in the riddled poetry of liquid anger.

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I don’t miss my home.  I don’t miss my family.  I miss the part of this movie when estranged bloodlines find their way back to an unfamiliar place of forgiveness and do-overs.  I don’t miss the holiday gatherings, but I do miss all the laughter and running jokes that weren’t at anyone’s expense that never happened.  I miss when Scrooge turns for good on Christmas morning.  I miss when the dead no longer speak.

I miss when the dead spoke only to me.

This morning, I miss this time as it is passing.  I miss my Someone while he sleeps.  I will miss our waking time, too, because it moves quickly through our days and may one day end up in a letter, 29 years from now, that will accumulate every undocumented moment that has made me who I am then.  I miss that woman, too, waiting for me in that time to catch up.

I hope this is not the dead speaking.  I want the chance to miss a thousand more books before then.

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