Postcards Without Postage, pt. 8

Dear Robin,

It's not the same without you here. Not that you've ever been here before, but in your own way you had come with me every time before. This time I am wandering, looking for clarity, searching for answers. My return has been more hail mary than bullseye, and I keep wondering if divine hands are cupped in the midst of the mob, ready to cradle me from falling.

I wonder why your presence shielded me from this anxiety; wonder why you gently accompanied me down the frantic streets and through the manic markets; wonder why you laughed with me on the evenings when some odd event reminded me of your patchwork idiosyncrasies. All I know is that the sense of wonder has faded this time around. I'm told the newness has run its course, but I wonder if I just finally ran out of excuses to pretend there was an us.

Yet as I wander, I am finding love in this place. The drive-by "Hello!"s from nervous school boys; the guesses that I am from Africa, Pakistan, or Malaysia; the clusters around heated Mah Jong arguments; the elderly ladies dressed in red jogging suits and dancing to techno music on my way to class; the sweet potatoes roasted whole inside a sooty barrel; the white-hatted men carrying prayer mats to the mosque for evening prayer; the beautiful woman who sells stinky tofu in the alley behind the market, wants to marry a foreigner, and just learned that there is an ocean between here and America; guests who come bearing gifts of yogurt or salty crackers.

There is room for me here. Amidst all the strangeness, I feel welcome; like you made me feel. Amidst all the familiarity, I feel estranged; like you made me feel. I wonder, will I ever be able to hold this place and these people in the parts of me that forever belong to you? You never were one for cohabitation.

No matter the answer, I will take it all in. I will spread my arms, expand my diaphragm, and breathe China down to the tiniest toenail of my soul. And when I exhale and let go, I will hope once more that she will stay.

Ramón

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. 6

Dear Martina,

You were subdued that Wednesday night, when we said goodbye for the last time in that half-lit parking lot. Had I known it was the last time, I might have said some things. Things deep from the heart that while probably understood are better expressed.

So, as always, I listened. There was always something to say, something just beneath the surface that I couldn't position on my tongue. But the time for talking never came for me. I gladly listened, thinking that the bothersome parts of me could disappear, that my misplaced passion could be silent.

Now that you're gone, my tongue is loosed but so are you. I've heard rumors of a new town, a new last name. I would love to hear it directly from you but I scared you away, didn't I? You were subdued because somehow in my listening, the silent was spoken. I didn't know it that night, but a half decade of nights later with no word from you, I'm putting the pieces together.

I found a snapshot of us in the picture box last night. We are in Chicago, bright city lights crowning your windblown hair. We are arm in arm, and it looks easy. If only things had remained that black and white.

I hope you are well in your new life. Know that you are missed by an old friend,

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?

Postcards Without Postage, pt. 4

Dear little one,

I had a strange dream last night that made scant sense, but when I woke I knew it was about you.

From atop a mountain, I saw a dark bank of clouds streaming in from the east. They moved swiftly, heavy with purpose. As they reached the sky above me, they began to hover and swirl. Deliberately and ominously they gathered until they became the sky.

I heard a voice neither cruel nor gentle wail, "Cover your eyes!" Against my will I obeyed, the force of the voice driving into me with irresistible compulsion. As the world went black, I could feel the heaviness of the clouds crashing over me, an inexorable tide of darkness threatening to suffocate.

"Open your eyes," said a whisper in my ear, childlike and wise. Oh, how I wanted to listen to this whisper! But against the heaviness I could only manage to loose my left eye from its imprisonment.

I saw the underside of the clouds bathed in a bright orange glow, the reflection of some great forest fire, trees below singing with elegiac passion within the conflagration. It was terrible and beautiful, and I returned to my darkness with a mixture of regret and relief.

"Open your eyes," came the whisper once more, laden with urgency. Again the heaviness prevented me from complying fully, but this time I opened my right eye.

I once again saw the inky cloud bank bathed in fire, but this time the glow was warm and fading, like the sunset. It was another flame of passing, but it burned with the promise of tomorrow's rising. All beneath was silent in anticipation. It was beautiful and terrible, and again I retreated to the comfort of my blindness.

"Open your eyes," came the whisper a third time, adding gently, "Do not be afraid." These last four words birthed a lightness in me, and pregnant with expectation I opened both of my eyes onto the leaden expanse.

Just as I looked, the heavens broke open and the deluge began. The fire beneath the clouds shone through the rain to create a crystal clear rainbow, its arc crowning the horizon. I began to cry.

And then I woke, crying still. My little one, I am awash in sorrow. How will I not drown? I have sent my prayers for peace flying to the four corners of the heavens, but they have returned bearing no message, no assurance. Though I endure 197 days of silence, will I ever again see the world unflooded by tears?

As my red-rimmed eyes surrender to slumber once more, I am searching desperately for the courage to open my eyes to the sunrise. For I know it is you whispering in the morning, "Do not be afraid."

Postcards Without Postage, pt. 2

Querida Abuelo,

It was your birthday four days ago, but I nearly forgot. In fact, I always forgot. I've never remembered birthdays besides Mom and Dad's, and I even forgot Dad's 50th. I didn't speak to you much at all while you were alive, and I regret it. I let myself be daunted by a language barrier that was nowhere near as formidable as I imagined. I allowed you to be a mythical figure rather than the warm, solid man the rest of the family knew. I missed out. And as a result, I can't tell these days if my grief is from losing you ro realizing how little I let myself know you. I could never remember your birthday but I will never forget the day of your death. I wish it was otherwise, because yours was a life to be celebrated. Dad says the family gathered for a dinner four nights ago. I imagine them eating, drinking, laughing, and maybe crying later in their bedrooms. I don't know; I wasn't there. For so long I haven't been there, but you were. A pillar of radiant LIFE that I could return to whenever I wanted. Why did I not come? And why now, when you are gone, am I so drawn to you, to your absence? I talked about ministry and family with you, but not about me. Not about my shortcomings. So, I'll tell you now--I often have to write later what I did not have the presence to say in the moment.

Te amo y te extraño mucho,

Ramón

Postcards Without Postage, pt. 1

This is the first in a series of postcards I am writing to people with whom I am no longer in contact--people from the past; people who are estranged; people who have passed away (names have been changed where appropriate). This was inspired by a gift from my friend Natalie Gonzalez...so credit her if you like it, and blame me if you don't.

Dear Elena,

Wow, it's so great to hear from you after such a long time and distance between us. I've thought of you often on this journey. Tentatively, but often. So many things I've seen, people I've met, remind me of our love in its infancy. When I'm melting my eyes out on towering landscapes or crystal clear starlit skies, I am reminded of that perfect New England night. At least, that's how it seemed to me then. Cinematic in its timing, its scenery, its cathartic embrace. But remembering back, I celebrated our kiss like I'd won some race. It was reduced to a goal achieved, an affirmation of self. You were utterly left behind, transubstantiated into a phantom of love's ideal instead of the very solid, very present Elena who had been my friend since I disembarked from my East Coast exodus. Elena, I'm sorry. I didn't even know how to crawl, much less walk with you. I caused you a lot of pain over the next year, willfully and spitefully. Childishly. And now, regretfully. It's been over a decade since that snowy night in New England, and I don't remember the kiss anymore. The feeling of apparent victory. There is only the dull ache of love betrayed. For that, I am sorry. Love is a hard teacher. -- Ramón