68, but almost 67

Joe,

I remember the first conversation we had, sitting in two chairs in the Student Center. You complained about reading Jane Eyre. I was almost afraid to say that I loved it, then I wondered why the Hell I'd change my book taste for you. Then I was happy to have someone to share books with--even just the idea of them, the talking about reading them.

You suggested that we go see the play the school was bringing in, a two-hour Jane Eyre. You never mentioned it again. I saw the poster after the event and was going to ask, but I didn't.

I was sitting on my parents couch today. Not really sitting. Reclining in a way I would get in trouble for if I weren't 22. My feet were propped up on the armrest. My head was on a few pillows. A magazine floated above my head, moving closer and farther away since I still haven't gotten my glasses. Something was wrong, but I couldn't figure it out. I crossed and uncrossed my feet. And then I realized. I was resting on a stack of pillows and not your lap, not your shoulder. I couldn't feel your heartbeat.

I missed you today. You've heard this before. You heard it earlier today. You heard it yesterday. You may not have heard this: I've never been so happy missing someone as I was when I thought about hugging you. For a moment, I forgot what it felt like. I had to focus. Would my arms go around your waist or around your neck?

Then I remembered that it's not my arms that make the difference. It's the way that hollow bit between your shoulder and ribs can cradle my head just right, like some joint and socket. Two bodies becoming one. Next time I hug you, I'll trace that spot with my hand. I'll tell you that you were made for me and play Sam Cooke. You were made for me.


My name is changing soon. You'll have to teach me how to write it. How to swirl the four letters together quickly. For years now, my signature has been a series of ups and downs, the front of Charlie Brown's shirt. I'm getting curvier. You know how I feel about this. You've got to work with me. Teach me how to handle that. Make me okay with it. Remind me that we're changing together, that I'm not losing a part of myself. That two bodies become one. That you were made for me. That we're both changing.

Love,
Meg