day 5, to my dreams

Day 5. Your dreams
(I am re-arranging. This is technically letter four. Letter five, to my sister, will be posted tomorrow. It's proving exceptionally difficult to write.)

Hello, beautiful.

I thought I'd buried you. There was a long week that summer–when I knew writing wasn't enough; when banks quit giving out loans; when I realized we wouldn't have health care; when I thought about how long it would take to find the right city–that I dedicated myself to pushing you away from me.

They make movies about this. The love we push away. The unexpected return–waking up in a cold sweat, or seeing your lover with his new wife walking along the sidewalk. Or standing in the shower, feeling like something is missing and counting your limbs, your fingers, your toes to see that you're all there. You remember. You re-member. You realize you hadn't forgotten. Like the tree roots trapped in the foundation of your garage. You cut it down. The sapling keeps coming back–each time with a thicker trunk.

I love sleeping with you. I love showering with you. It's where you're most vivid. They've done studies about this, you know. In my mind, in those moments, we're already together. I purchased the small warehouse in the French quarter of St. Louis, the one with the glass front near the farmer's market. That was two summers ago. By now, the plot of grass next to the warehouse would be a garden–big enough for all of our produce.

Word would have gotten around by now. Our house-made chai blends. Our vegan pastries. I'm still working on the recipes, you know. Still tweaking and increasing and kneading more. Needing more. I'm missing the mornings of 6 a.m. baking duty, that hour of sunrise when all I had to think about was you, me and not spilling the bucket of sesame seeds. I planned the furniture, the menu, the press releases and media buzz. I did mock interviews. I planned events with local artists. I saved the farmers of a community.

But that was when we were getting on well, and then I dropped you like the tray of bagels that burnt my arm–scattering them across the floor, under the grill and abandoning them for days because I was still angry about how something so familiar (so many dozens carried each day) could hurt so much. That was the moment I went back to, when I was trying hardest to let you go.

I don't know what brought you back. The nostalgia that's been eating me for days. The homesickness. The delayed sense of trauma at abandoning my family. So I cling to you, and I don't want you to get the wrong impression. This isn't a rebound. This isn't just a chance to feel you again. This is for keeps. This is for real dreaming, and for letting myself be okay with this.

This time, I'm accepting that you're a part of me–the café with a two-bedroom apartment above that I will never stop looking for, bracing myself for, dying for. Because we never know. You could be there at any moment, on any sidewalk. I don't want to put my head down and force myself to walk on by.

Yours, with deepest affection,
Megan

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