Who knows anymore how to open an envelope? What is this sliver
of silver for, this hand-forged slice of steel in the drawer? Go to the
paper store and ask for stationery, and you’ll be shown cards of:
kittens flowers ducks birds songshine boredom cutesy.
Who knows anymore how to begin this letter? Dear whom.
Am I mistress or madame or madam? What goes in the middle
besides the weather and the questions. At the end, are you:
sincerely mine graciously yours in best wishes thinking of me?
I remember stamps in rolls. Letters in scrolls. The swirls of esses.
The way the Y in you dipped low beneath the line, beckoned
with a wave. I remember the muscles of pen in my fingers, the way
they trembled. Tongue to lips, the fold and seal and stick.
Letters aren’t the only things we’ve lost. There were years I couldn’t
recall how to love. It was a lazy thing that wouldn’t come at my
whistle anymore. Just laid there and played dead. I couldn’t remember
how to open it. Or hold up the middle. Or, even when the time came,
to end it. But all month I’ve been writing letters. Cracking open
that which was sealed shut. Putting my lips to the edges of things.
Muscle memory comes back to us all. The heart is a muscle too.
Hold my hand in yours, tilt the pen just so. Let us begin. Dear.
Written quickly tonight. I’m super tired and feeling the creative drain. Some lovely letters today, and those make me happy. I am slowly working on writing everyone back.