Chapter 3

September 18th, 2009

Dear Theo,

Brother, how does it feel to be married? I've missed you so much since I last saw you and your bride in North Carolina not three weeks ago. I only wish that we all had more time together - and of a higher quality. I admit that I was under quite a lot of stress then from this past summer's bad news, but I think so were you.

I thought of you the other day, the reason being this: I awoke in the middle of the night with the strangest itch on my nose. As I opened my eyes, I came to realize a terrible and horrifying thing. By the faint sprays of light cast into my bedroom by an orange streetlight, I could make out the figure of a large spider perched upon my right nostrel. I closed my left eye and focused in with my right just to be sure. And as soon as I was able to conclude that my observation was correct (which took less than one second, I assure you), my whole body errupted into one massive convulsion. I flicked the spider from my nose, slapping my face in the process - which hurt quite a lot. I tell you, I must have catapulted that spider the length of my very large bedroom, causing it to have the spider's equivalent of cardiac arrest because when I woke in the morning, I found it dead next to the door. If you are wondering the size it, it would have given those English house spiders a run for their money. And yes, my face did hurt still in the morning.

Oh, the times we have shared - and even you were a part of this one even if you were not simply for your ridiculous phobia of spiders. I only wish we could all be together once more. I've longed for the company of old friends.

Theo, I must confess something to you. I am very tired. I have been for a long time; since my return from Europe, really. Only for much of that time I was tired because I grew weary of life. And it seems life grew weary of me. Now I believe I am tired because, well, I have been changing so much. From the moment Timothy...you know...I have had much to consider about myself. I've wondered a lot of things in these few short months. I've gone from living for tomorrow to living for today, and that seems much more realistic. But there is something more. What is it?

I think my heart is also changing. You know, that deeper part of me. It's not that I'm falling in love. Oh dear, far from falling in love, except that maybe I am falling in love with God all the more. But that is so vague. What is this? Oh bother. I can't figure it out. I only wish I had the words. I think that if I could speak every language of the world, maybe I could make one decent sentence to describe this change. And even then I'd have to understand it to describe it, so never mind.

Can I ask you something? What's it like to be in love? Does it make you bubbly and silly? Do you overlook things in your bride that irritate you in others? Does it seem worth it to marry? For love? For any other reason? I once knew these things. Oh, but I will save that for another day. Instead, let's just laugh together about such an enquiry. I'm sillier than I can bare.

The front door swung open and large man wearing faded blue overalls and a pair of muddy utility boots walked through. "Love! Love! Are you in!?" he yelled. He possessed the voice of a titan; a voice that boomed throughout the house, resulting in a vibration that caused dust to unsettle from shelves or even, occasionally, books to fall from those shelves.

"Yes, I'm washing up," she called back in a voice that made them seem much like opposites.

He stomped into the kitchen, leaving a trail of dried and hardened earth on the carpet behind him. "There you are, love of my life," he said in a quieter, gentle voice. He scooped her petite frame up into the large muscles of his arms; then kissed the line of her jaw that meets her neck. "You smell like beauty itself." Though he had said this to her every day before, she smiled at the thought that he would also say this to her every day after.

"How was your morning?" she asked in an even smaller voice than before.

"Wonderful, as it only could be since you are my wife." He kissed her jaw again. "Say, it's beautiful outside today. How would you like to go for a drive?" he asked. He knew she would say 'yes'. He knew that she loved nothing more than feeling country air rush through her thick, black hair at a speed that can only be reached by automobile. And so,

"I think that sounds like a great idea."

An hour later they found themselves cruising down an old country lane in the brand new Ford her father had given them as a wedding present. The sun seemed exceptionally bright that day, which is something they both noted, and really it may have only seemed that way because they were so in love.

As they approached the windy part of the lane that curved up and around onto a bluff, he said to her, "Today is a perfect day." Then he reached his hand across the seat and rested it over her womb where their unborn child waited for the world outside. She felt the warmth of his fingers pulsate through her abdomin and up through her body, filling gaps and spaces with life and color and passion. She pulled herself to his side and placed her lips upon his.

This moment could have been like any other wonderful moment in the history of their marriage, but it was not. For in that moment, the two lovers were so fixated on one another and the possibilities that their love could create, that they failed to notice their brand new Ford drifting from their side of the road to the other. And even this would not have seemed such a big deal on such an old country lane on such a day as this - except that on this particular day at that particular moment on that particular old country lane a man was hurridly transporting three large horses in a very large truck down the bluff. And as he weeved around the windy part of that country lane a bit faster than he ought to, he found a brand new Ford driving directly toward him just as fast. Before either had time to react, a perfect day became the worst day for the three lives lost and the one life spared.

I have some news for you. My mother is thinking of leaving my father. She says they have grown far apart. For years I have watched their marriage erode with insecurities and hurtful words and busyness. I have grown comfortable with their loveless union. I have not let it ruin me. But I do not think I can withstand a divorce. Theo, I cannot imagine the pain of losing a spouse to death. But to watch yourself lose one who is still living and willing to be lost. Does that not distroy a soul in some significant way?

I will see you in a few short months. Please let us keep Maine as a likely option.

Sincerely,

Dylan King

Chapter 2

September 17th, 2009

Dear Rachael S,

How are you? I've yet to hear from you, though this is something I understand since you must be now heavy into your studies.

I write to you from Hawaii. Does it seem strange to you that I travel so much? It does not seem strange to me. I have had a permanent address for ten years, but have never had a sense of home.

What does seem strange to me is the nature of my visit to this island. I am on holiday and it is very much a holiday, unlike the last time I traveled here, which did not resemble a holiday at all. Instead, it fell under the catagory of 'suck': the death of a loved one. And not just ANY death of ANY loved one - the suicide of my younger brother, Timothy. Poor Timothy.

This is difficult to write about now, but I will make the attempt. Sometimes when I close my eyes I can see him hanging from his rope, eyes still open, life still on his lips - though barely. This vision stays pasted on my eyelids as if I really did witness such a thing; as if I were the one to discover him and the one to cut the rope and the one to pull him down and the one to cry: "Why!? Why would you do this!? How could you do this!? How could you be so selfish!? You can't do this! You can't go! You can't die! Don't die! Stay! Stay!!!" And I would be the one to see that he would not stay.

It has been two months, Rachael. I know that no one has moved on as much as they appear to have. I have finally found the strength to cry. This is somewhat humorous - that one needs strength to cry. I always imagined it being the opposite. But I will not write about this any longer.

Here is something you will find interesting. I am being pursued by a young man, or so it seems. He has been trying to get to know me for many months. He appeared somewhat entranced by me when we first met. I know this seems like a funny thing to say and I certainly laugh. It's just that he could not keep his eyes from me; and they went sort of googly and pathetic. This made me uncomfortable more than it did flatter me. Shortly after that he began his quest to learn as many things about me as possible. He has asked about my family, about my work, about the things I would like to do when I grow up, about the places I have visited, about where I'd prefer to live when I have a family, about this and about that. The about's never end and I am convinced that if they could, he would start right back again asking the same questions. I do not know how to do anything but ablige him. The problem is that I do not like him.

I do not dislike him either.

I wonder how many marriages are formed on indifference; how many lives are spent together not for the sake of passion but for the sake of being married. There is this school of thought that a good marriage does not require any passion, but instead loyalty and compromise. And then there is the opposite school of thought that marriage is entirely doomed without passion. I am still deciding where I fall on the spectrum.

I suppose I could never imagine myself marrying someone I didn't want (in the carnal sense, of course). But I also think it is completely, completely, completely stupid to marry someone based on desire. So I wonder, "Maybe I should give him a chance. Maybe once I get to know him, I will like plenty of things about him and I will even be attracted to him. Besides, how often does a guy pursue me? Not often enough." When I think back, every man who has pursued me has recieved the same response from me: indifference. But also when I think back, every man who has pursued me, I've not regreted rejecting.

So whether I date this young man or whether I do not, hardly matters to me today. In fact, I doubt that I will date him, but I am learning that God also works in unexpected ways. And for this reason, I ablige him.

On a seperate note, today I went to the cemetery. Here is something that I have concluded about myself: no matter how much I miss someone who has passed, I do not think I will ever understand why I would need to visit a gravesight. How can I connect with an inanimate object? It does not make sense to me. A memory, however...memories are my gravesights. Yes. I think so.


When he was a very little boy he would come to visit her. Sometimes for weeks he stayed as his mother and father attended to their business. For this reason, he grew very attached to her. And her to him. Of course, one should know that she was unable to have children of her own.

At night she would tell him stories; some that her father told her and some that she'd invented in the caverns of her still youthful mind. He loved them all, though not as much as he loved to watch her mouth form words or her eyes give expression to the horrors and joys of each story. Then when she finished them, she would stay with him on his bed until he fell asleep. She knew she had to. If she left him, he would cry and scream or even play because he could not fall asleep without her (though he never needed this much from his parents). So she'd lay next to him for as long as it took, their faces close together looking into black balls of eyes sunken into milky complexions illuminated only by a sliver of a moon. This, in her mind, always made him seem so adult, so human, so broken, and this scared her.

As she waited for him to fall asleep at night, staring into his aged eyes, he would bring his small hands to her face and run his fingers through her hair. At first he would do this so gently, but as his eyelids and his breathing grew heavier, he would start to pull at each strand as if to test their loyalty to her scalp. Pull. Twist. Tear. Pull. Twist. Tear. Oh, this surely was very painful, but she did not mind. She never minded; never said a word to stop him; never pushed his hand away; never even moaned under her breath. She just watched his eyes become eclypses of a granite moon until finally...sleep.

And 'why?' might one ask? Why would she never make any protest? Why not even a small request for a softer pull?

"For love," she would say. "I would lose every strand for the sacrafice of love." And every strand she did lose.


It is late now. A dog barks in the lot next to me. I think he barks at some cat licking her paws atop the carport he sleeps under. I feel sad for this dog because he does nothing all day but bake in the sun as he sleeps, waiting for the cool of night to obsess over a cat he will never catch. Such boasts he makes and all in vain. All in vain.

Sincerely,

Dylan King

Chapter 1

September 2nd, 2009

Dear Rachael S,

I write to you because we are old friends and I miss you. How is Colorado? More importantly, how are you?

I am changing. This seems important to tell you. I cannot tell you exactly why I am changing. I don't think I yet know. Or that it can't be defined. Whatever it is, it is drastic, I think. Is it that I'm growing up? I don't know. There are so many things that seem very small, but they are the ripples that create the wake that rocks the boat.

Here is an example. My room in Seattle is very large. It is so large that I have not enough things to fill it. I have always wanted such a vast space. And I have been content with this space for some time. But this morning I woke up and I felt smothered by the vastness. That the room is so very large that it ought to not have walls at all - nor roof nor anything. It is so great that it ought to not be a room in the first place. And because of this, I felt very limited and very smuthered by the existence of walls in my very vast, very large, very great room.

Here is another example. My body is changing. My breasts somehow seem more perky, more full. I look at my body in the mirror and what I expect to see is not there. When I think I will see an aged woman, I see a woman with the breasts of a still developing adolescent. They do not droop or seem bored as they once did. They seem full of life and perseverence and passion. They seem ready for a husband and suckling children.

My womb also has changed. I have always desired children, but in such a vague and ideal way. My belly now glows with a longing to be with child, to do what it was created to do, to have a lover. It lives as a paradox; to be both full and empty: full of desire for that which it is empty of, and empty of that which it desires to be full of. I do not know how others do not see the glow. It is as bright as a torch in a midnight cavern. It has become the light which illuminates the path before me. I do not know if this is a good thing.

I just returned from a trip to the mountains of North Carolina. I stayed there in a cabin. One morning my will beckoned me outside. So each foot fell in front of the other, leading me down a gravel path along a shallow river. I came to a bridge and there I found myself standing. I say that I found myself standing there because I had no intention of stopping. But it seems my feet had intentions of their own, or perhaps that the bridge had called me rather than my will. And so I stood. I began to think. And as I began to think, I realized that I felt quite liberated.

There is something about the mountains. In the mountains, life is just life. That is all. But in the city life is not just life. It is life with this and life with that; life with work and life with play; life with social norms and life with status quo; life with deadlines and life with expectations; life with budgets and life with a need to fill our diaries with nonsense meetings, errands, and social requirements. And standing on that bridge that unified land and land, I decided that I much prefered just life and perhaps I ought to stay. But I turned and heard MY life calling me; calling me back to a life that is not just life, but life that is life with all the things that adulterate just life.

"You are not making any sense," the mirror said.

"Yes, I know," she replied. "But does it even matter?"

"No, I suppose it does not."

They paused and stood a while face to face, she fixated on the mirror and the mirror fixated on her.

"Do you love me?" asked the mirror.

"I love they way you speak and I love the way you laugh and I love the way you sigh and I love the way your cheeks make dimples when you are not really smiling but only pretending," she said back.

"But do you love ME?" asked the mirror again.

"If you are the way you speak and the way you laugh and the way you sigh and the way your cheeks make dimples when you are not really smiling but only pretending, then yes. I do love you."

"But I am not the way I speak and the way I laugh and the way I sigh and the way my cheeks make dimples when I am not really smiling but only pretending."

"Then what are you?"

"I am...just...me."

She paused a second. Or perhaps it was longer. It seemed longer. More like a minute or several minutes or possibly even an hour. But it must have only been a second.

"Then I don't know," she finally said. "I don't know just you."

I am also sad or perhaps melancholy or perhaps fragile. Yes, I must be fragile. Fragile in a good way. It is not the sort of fragile that means I will be broken beyond repair. It is somehow different, though also, in a way, the same. I am fragile, or becoming fragile, in a way that makes me think I'm really just becoming a woman. It is as if I am suddenly so thin, so breakable, so vulnerable, but yet also strong. I feel that I am spreading out into vastness, like a drop of oil gliding over the surface of water, molecules splitting into halves and fourths and eighths and sixteenths until there is nothing seperating water from air - though there is something, but it is mostly nothing. Yet this water becomes my strength and the very thing that keeps me together. And while I can be broken, my mostly nothing surface disturbed by quick or heavy penetrations, it is the water that pulls me back together once more. And because of this I know I am fragile in a good way.

I hope you will write me also.

Sincerely,

Dylan King