Postcards without postage, pt. 7

Dear Sophie,

It is the time of barbecues and bottle rockets, and I am once again reminded of you. Did you watch the fireworks tonight? Did you whisper confession to your companion that you have nightmares of real rockets raining down fire, cracking the veneer of peace in your sleepy satisfaction? Did you tell him under the flash and glow how you weep for the ravages of war?

It seems so long ago that we talked that way. Remember how we walked the city night in search of the final ingredients for our summer sauce? How we worked together until sunrise, juices mixing and simmering until all was just right?

Then, we waited. A good marinade has to settle before its true taste can be discovered.

But I awoke later that morning as a lone explorer. I don't know what secret conflict forced you to flee, but I want you to know that our recipe worked. It just needed time to grow into its full flavor. How I wish you had given it time.

From my house in Portland I can see fireworks flying to the heavens in every neighborhood for miles, and I cannot sleep for the flashing and popping. I am reminded how your heart was a restless refugee, afraid to stay and fight the battle to make someone, someplace, home.

Do you weep for me? Please do not, for healing has found me in this place. I hope it might soon make its home with you, a whisper of peace in the night air between us.

Ramón

Postcards Without Postage, pt. 5

Dear Amelia,

I will never forget the look on your face when I picked you up at the airport and spoke the unspoken. You were looking at me, eyebrows raised, as if to say, "But, how do you know?"

The question caught me off-guard and I had no answer for you. I wish I had said,

I know the same as anyone else knows, I suppose.

I know that when we are together, I don't ever want to say goodbye. But I must.

I know that when something amazing or exciting happens, you're the first person I want to call. But I can't.

I know that when I hear a great jazz recording, you're the first person I want to hear it. But you're not listening.

I know when we are with our friends, I never want to leave your side; never want to miss your smile; never want your laughter to subside. But, I mingle.

I know when you are full of grief I want you to find relief in my embrace. I want to hold all of you -- your shaking shoulders and shuddering breaths, your darkest fears that there is no one left to cry with. But I am there.

I know I want you to know me, in all my weakness and ego and confidence and joy. But you don't really know, do you?

How do I know, you wanted to ask. I don't know. No one does. But with all that I am, I choose you.

What do you know about that?