these letters i never sent

Tuesday, March 9, 2021

Pretty, Pretty Paper

Typewritten letter: Dear X Jesus, just typing your name brings up so much. I've been thinking about you a lot this past year, about what this whole ordeal would be like in Los Angeles, about being especially at risk due to your history with asthma and pneumonia. At least you wouldn't have to be on the busses anymore. I can't tell you how many times I'd wished you were there to send chats and emails back and forth with. It's been such a crazy fucking year for all of us, but as the weather warms and the seasons transition again, I can't help but think back to last spring, how I'd been glued to news reports and youtube videos starring Dr. Broccoli Soup, this dude who is actually a Dr. John Campbell (lol, soup!) from england who had all these videos about what might be unfolding with the emergin coronavirus and what the challenges and horrors it migh bring forth. He was right about almost all of it, but delivered all his assessments with a lovely evenhanded britteshniess. Brittis... shit. I'm a little high. He also had a video whrein he demonstrated a broccoli soup recipe that brought me and X much comfort in the dark early days of lockdown. I met March with such dread last year. I watched all the reports I could from China about the lockdowns and I just couldn't fathom what was about to unfold inthe US. More accurately, I could fathom it, and it kept me up at night. One year ago. It's the 9th. ON the 19th, last year, I lost my job.. I was not surprised. They had not been doing well anyway.. In fact, I'd already been laid off there twice previously, the first time back in October(2019) and that's when I enrolled in a coding bootcamp for April of 2020. So the timing was fortuitous, but still, it was unmooring. I filed for unemployment for the first time in my life. I was so scared though, about everything. The virus, making bills, if class would be called off, if there would ever be jobs for me to find again, if there would be bread and toilet paper again. Fuck. This paper is nice. I remember when I bought it. Where too. FLAX Art at Market Street and Valencia in San Francisco, right around the corner from the Travelodge where X and I stayed (and got fucking bedbugs). I remember seeing it the first time I visited X in San Fran, and I so wanted to go there and browse. I The scond trip, shit was going so poorly and things were so awkward I suggested it as a bridge activity that I figuted at least everyone but dad would enjoy. I bough these pretty papers and a shiny jounral thinking, no, resolving to be better at writing letters to everyoe. I'd finally turn that leaf over, finally keep in touch. March, 2012 I remember sitting in our bed, spring breeze from the woods giving me that hopeful feeling nothing else could, typewriter in my lap with the pretty paper I got in San Francisco. I held against hope then that I would do it this time. I would keep in touch. I would write more. I would lose weight. I would turn, and in turning cut new curves that wouldshape the rest of my life for the best. It didn't turn out. I should have listened to ... no. I did what I did. It got hard. I was embarrased and I pulled away. From you. From everyone. I am sorry for that. It was shitty and I am sorry. March 2021. Different typewriter. Flax is condos now. Same pretty paper thouh. Love and miss you


 

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