Proof

I wrote my first love letter on a computer. I was eleven-years-old and trying to express my feelings for Sara K. I printed to my dad’s office, which required a mad dash across the house to retrieve it, during which time I suspect he peeked.

Soon thereafter my mom shared with me the maxim, “No paper, no proof.” Strange advice to give a writer -- not that she could’ve known at the time. Strange, then, for a writer to echo the sentiment some twenty-five years later, but no less true.

What is proof? Evidence in support of suspicion. But it’s cast here in a pejorative light: proof of wrong-doing, proof of malfeasance. Without a paper trail -- letters, emails, and texts -- there’s no way to assign unequivocal blame to a party. Still, don’t we require proof of beauty? Proof of love? These things are ephemeral. Without proof a person may grow to doubt him- or herself, or whether these emotions truly existed.

Sara K. is a real person; she has a real presence on the internet, and may not appreciate being identified. I wonder, though, how she’d feel if I produced that long-ago love letter. Decades after the fact, what might it constitute proof of? Not anything good or bad, but a moment in time. A sentiment I shared with her, spruced up in my eleven-year-old vocabulary: Hey. I think you’re wonderful. In fact, I think about you all the time. And if I ever get to kiss you my heart might explode. Okaybye.