To Self

Dear Lydia,

Things here are, as usual, all contrasts.

There’s lots of action – always events and people rushing – but time stands still. Nothing changes.

Damn, I don’t even know who’s winning the primaries. Somehow, it doesn’t seem so important here.

Everyone here is still in that season-long limbo, smiling every time we mention the summer,

But you know how much we like the short weeks and the softball tournaments, too.

It was sunny enough for my sleeves to get rolled up this weekend, and I thought about you.

Is it warm in the city? Is it as beautiful as that one day on Clark?

You turned 17 recently – I remembered. Congratulations!
Sometimes I feel older than you, even though I was born later.

Oh, and sometimes I feel younger. I guess time really does pass weirdly here.

Every time we go stargazing, I think of you. Do you remember that night on the dock?

We all miss you here, especially me.

I know exactly what day I’ll be seeing you, but sometimes I still wonder if you won’t just appear

Maybe from around a bend in the trail down from TS, or behind the craft shop, or something.

I’m not sure anyone else quite gets it. Having you gone is like lacking a piece of myself.

In order of send this letter, I’m going to have to borrow an envelope from somebody,

And root a stamp out from under my bunk. I know they’re down there, somewhere.

Then I’ll have to go up to the office – do you see what kind of strife I go through for you?

I really missed you, Lydia. The rest of them, they’ve been here since March;

But I stayed every month from when you left, almost a year ago.

I was always waiting here for you,

Even over Christmas.

XX---