Dear Virginia

Dear Virgina,

I left you a note

At the bottom of the sea

Written in waterproof ink

That tells a story

About a girl

Who met a man

And washed away

Please understand that I, myself

Am not depressed

Or sad

Or in any way feeling the way

You must have felt

When you decided

That life was too much

In no way am I minimizing

Your pain

Or your struggle

But I feel a kinship with you

That I can’t explain

The other day I was younger

Much younger

A version of myself

I don’t remember

And I found myself sitting in the middle of a lake

Dry as a bone

Wondering why the water

Wouldn’t touch me

I’m older now

But I’m not old

Or at least

That’s what I tell myself

And water still won’t

Give me a second look

I met him somewhere between

The younger version

And the me I am now

And I thought I would know him forever

And never really know him at all

He was that sort of a person

We met on the land

But after ten seconds

Water came rushing in around us

And he swam away from me

Asking if I would go with him

I told him I couldn’t

Because water wouldn’t have

Anything to do with me

And before he could ask me why

He got swept away

To somewhere I’ve never been

The ocean maybe?
Who knows?

Maybe you’ve seen him

Wherever you are

Again, I’m not making light of your situation

I just don’t know who to talk to

About these sorts of things

And I’m afraid of sounding

The way I sound
I don’t trust my own voice

When I was young, I would talk to myself

And that was acceptable

Because it made me seem winsome

And creative

And lovely

But now I’m older

And it just makes me seem sad

Or unstable

Virgina, I’m just as far from the boy that swam away

As I was the day I met him

And every time I dream of dipping a toe in a lake

Or washing my hair in the rain

Or falling backwards into a neighbor’s pool

I have to remind myself

That not every dream

Belongs to generosity

 Now I know what you’re thinking—

You’re thinking

If she can’t touch water

She…must smell really bad

But no, I have my methods

Although to me, a simple shower

Would be glorious

A bath would be the stuff

Of myth and legend

If myths were rubber ducks

And legend was a scrub brush

I lied to you earlier

And I apologize

But I’ll confess now
If that’s all right?

I know why I feel connected to you

It’s not a mystery

It’s because I have felt that

Which would drive someone

To put stones in their overcoat

And walk confidently

Towards oblivion

I’ve felt it all my life

But…as many overcoats as I own

And as many stones as I can carry

I have nowhere to take them

Perhaps somebody, somewhere

Is trying to protect me?

But why wouldn’t that same person

Protect you?

You had so much more to offer

Than I do

So many beautiful ideas

So many wayward notions

So many reasons

To stay dry

But you’re at the receiving end of this letter

And I’m the one with the pen

And paper

Telling you my troubles

Who knows why the water

Wraps around some of us

And leaves others

Alone on the sand

My mother used to say this poem to me

When I was younger

And I apologize for how simple it is

But she was a simple woman

With a complicated heart

And her poem went like this—

Some are the brothers of miracles

Some are the enemies of grief

Some are the sisters of loneliness

And some are the friends of relief

I’d listen to that poem and think—

I’d like to be a friend of relief

I knew I could never be that close to a miracle

And I didn’t want to go to war with grief

Or be related to loneliness, but…

To be a friend of relief

My goodness, I thought

What a wonderful thing

To be