from “On Loosing You In Particular”
by Abigail St. Clair Thomas
Today I sent you a letter in the mail with a stupid frog posed in a lunge with a guitar. I pictured you opening it in your kitchen; I tried to see if you had done the dishes. I lingered on some coffee stain I noticed on the table before I started over and saw you in your bedroom, maybe facing the window onto the Hudson, maybe facing the wall by the door- I wasn’t sure. Either way in that one you were sitting and you seemed more focused on whatever words I wrote down that I am kicking myself now for not remembering entirely. I was stupid and sentimental about you always which is something, I realized after you, I’ll be trying to avoid or find again, or maybe both, or perhaps just one, for some time.
I used to tell your sister being with you was easy; I left you alone in churches and made sure you ate regularly. Everything about us made me think we were atheists. You road your Vespa and drove cars in that thin space between thinking heaven was a promise and thinking nothing mattered at all- until you almost died and took me home the same night- feeling grateful not sorry. Then I saw in you for the first time this half open door to faith I used to peak around the corner of from time to time, in awe. Like a kid seeing how something is really done for the first time. It didn’t ruin anything for me about you, I didn’t find it half hearted or contrived, but I didn’t speak about it as though doing so would make it run away from me. And I wanted to know it. Without observation skewing it into something more or something less.