I am in a letter writing mood, and there are specific people I would like to write to. For instance, for example, I’ve been thinking about an old professor I had. My favorite professor. I have been addressing all my thoughts to him lately. My apologies for not writing sooner, I say. How are Fitzgerald, Hemingway, all the friends we share? I wonder. I tell him about my grandma, my lola, who is not doing well. I ask him about his wife, his writer-daughter, writer son-in-law. How old are his grandkids, again? I want to be a writer too, I remind him. But none of that third person nonsense. Only the almighty “I,” I think. Am I right? Am I right? Hopefully he is nodding and nodding.
Last night the full moon howled. Howled at itself for hours, it seemed. We woke, this morning, feeling its effects. A crooked shoulder. Nebulous headaches. Leaks. Coughs. Rips. Spills. Chills. Bad luck for everyone… At least, that is one explanation. What was the brief, redeeming moment of the day? I finger my memory for silver linings. I find lola. The lines on her face seem to float in my teacup. What a miracle.
I ask my professor if this is too much. Is it too much, too vague, not enough? Here or there, I think it is nice to love someone, I tell him. It is nice to remember someone extra tenderly from time to time. Because, what else are we here for but to love each other? I wait for his response.