Love Letter 2011

Dear Lance,

This is late. This is the first time since I started this little January 22nd tradition that I’ve been late.

Yesterday? There just wasn’t the time.

Yesterday, I woke up next to you on an air mattress wearing yesterday’s clothes. Crashed. Friday night turned from a friendly social call into an all night beer-ponging, FourLoko-swilling, bar-hopping evening.

It was a flashback – quite similar to what we were doing the night we met, or January 22, 2004, or any number of normative evenings at Central Michigan University – but better. In seven years, we have nicer apartments and queen-sized air mattresses for guests, our hosts make us eggs before sending us on our way, and we rehydrate with coconut water from Whole Foods.

The weather was cold but the sun was out. Our legs are still young, capable, healthy… why not walk the 3 miles home from Brighton Center? So we did. We walked and walked and talked and talked – piecing together details from the previous evening, debating the craziness that is the US food industry, talked about setting goals and motivating yourself to complete them. When we arrived home, our shoes were soaked, our bodies still dizzy and hungover, but we had just enough time to shower and put together a grocery list before leaving to run our Saturday errands.

The day unraveled quickly after that – two grocery stores and a library, a dinner reservation at 6:30, cake and presents with friends. After four courses at the Melting Pot and minuscule slices of Chocolate Guinness Cake – not to mention the residual queasiness of the previous evening’s bacchanal – running down the street for birthday drinks wasn’t on the table.

Turned in early.

Went to bed without a free hour to sit and contemplate the past seven years, and to compose this letter to you.

It was the first anniversary out of seven where we had the entire day together.

It’s easy to forget to be sentimental because now, this is our life. We wake up, we try not to shove each other out of bed reaching for the alarm clock, we work, we play, we go to sleep and wake up together the next morning.

I will ask you, every Saturday morning, what you want to eat for your lunches. You will walk through the apartment twice before taking off your snow-covered shoes.

When I’m having a shitty day, I will send you suicidal text messages and wait for you to get home so I can cry. In five to seven days, you will catch my cold.

I’m still processing what happened last semester. Maybe it was our respective workloads, but sometimes I felt like we were on different planets, maybe even revolving around different suns. Our time together was scant, reserved for a few shared meals every week, a few moments awake, lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling before sleep, those harrowing Boston car rides from JP to Brookline to do our weekly shopping.

At a time in my life when I am feeling so uncertain about my place, my future, my career, it’s easy for you and your priorities to seem far away, even as we share meals, bills, laundry baskets, common colds.

But in the end, there are days like yesterday – sweet days when we have nothing to do but take a long walk in the snow and stuff ourselves with cake – and nights when we stare at the ceiling for three minutes and talk about our cat before we fall asleep.

You are still here. We are still here. A lot happens in a year, in seven years, in a lifetime. Sometimes, there isn’t enough time to think about it. But it’s here. It’s still here.

We are still walking together in the snow, holding hands, every day.

Happy anniversary, love.

Yours,

Jessica

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One Comment to “Love Letter 2011”

  1. This is a lovely letter.

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