"The Letter"

The letter was unexpected. But when it came to my relationship with Travis, most things were unexpected.

It looked beautiful though, like most things associated with Travis. His signature blue stationary and his initials, “T.J” stamped on the back, just in case I forgot who he was and what he once meant to me. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how many other lovers I had taken since him, I would never be able to forget the summer we spent falling in love.

He was twenty-six and beautifully magnetic from the moment I laid eyes on him. He was tall, brown hair, blue eyes that made me weak in all the right places, gapped teeth that made his crooked smile more appealing than it probably should have been. He was a pro skate boarder with the body of a surfer. He smelled like clean laundry and the salty sea – a sweaty combination that made me wonder how I ever managed life without that smell. He was the “bad boy” type and I knew it. It’s what made me fall in love with him.

I was nineteen and working at my parent’s hipster inspired café when I saw him for the first time. My long brown hair was pulled back in a bun, retainer left in my mouth from the night before, coffee stains on my skin and clothes when he walked in. He had been here before – I could tell. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I just stood there, staring at him. He later told me that my mouth was wide open and I was drooling. I would tell him he was ridiculous, though in reality, it may just well have been the truth.

#

As I stared down at the letter – his letter, his words, and his thoughts – his voice echo’s in my mind and I have to put it back down on the table. I stared at it, picked it back up, stared at it, picked it back up. I just couldn’t bring myself to open it. Not yet at least. So many memories of our summer together came flooding back.

#

We sat on the grass. He faced me and I faced him. We had only known each other for a few weeks, but I never wanted to be away from him. And there was rarely ever a time when we weren’t together. It was a warm day. I was wearing a green summer dress – strapless, it showed just enough of my glowing skin. He looked at me and smiled. I was lost in him. He had his notebook with him. He always carried that notebook with him. He sometimes let me read what he was writing. Some entries were just jumbled thoughts that didn’t make any sense to anyone but him. Some entries were poems he had written. Some he had written about me. Some he had written about past lovers.

I tried not to be jealous. I knew he had to have been with other women before me, but in that moment it didn’t matter. He was with me. He was mine.

#

I’m brought back to the present moment, as reminiscing takes its pause. My roommate is home.

“Hey Chelsea.”

“… Hey.” I struggle to get out. She looks at the table and she too recognizes the handwriting. This isn’t the first time he has written to me since that particular summer came to an end. She eyed me and I shrugged. She rubbed my shoulder and walked into the other room. She knows that sometimes it is better to be silent than to say anything.

#

Just more snapshots and fragmented moments that crept into my peripheral vision. The way he would touch me – that memory haunts me, even years later. For years after, I secretly sat on that patch of grass, on that same field –  on particularly warm, breezy days, just to try to feel him touching me.

#

When that summer so long ago came to an end, he left California. He didn’t say a word. He was just gone one day. No forwarding address. Disconnected phone number. He loved me one day and then the next day he was gone. Or maybe it wasn’t love. Sometimes, late at night, I’m not even sure anymore.

#

Tears fill my eyes as I pick the letter back up and slowly run my fingers over his initials. I take a deep breath. I take several deep breaths as I open the envelope. Inside, on blue paper he writes:

My love, my love

My heart, my love

I am lost at sea

My love, my love

Please save me

My heart, my love

I am sinking

I am drowning

My love, my love

Anchor my heart

My heart, my love

All I want is you

My love, my love

Without you – I am not me

My heart, my love.

You are what I need

My love, my love

My heart, my love

#

            I crumble the letter up into a ball. Anger more than sadness takes over me and I feel sorry for him. And that leaves me glad. Glad that he is tortured. Or at least he appears to be tortured. Sick satisfaction as it may have been.

#

            Many more letters came after that, and all were returned to sender – unopened. The letters are expected now. But the memories don’t have a hold on me anymore. And that is all the closure and peace I could have ever asked for.