An open to letter to the ghosts in my life
It's part of the noise when winter comes
It reverberates in my lungs
Dear You,
I always thought I would be at your wedding.
I always planned on it, really, since we were children. Running around in my parent's backyard, dirt on our hands and scrapes on our knees, riding bikes during summer breaks. I can see it all so clearly now, lit up by Fourth of July sparklers. It's muddied by eyes red from chlorine and breath-holding contests, still scribbled out on notebook paper, underscored in crayon or Magic Marker, twice folded and stuck in the bottoms of dresser drawers. It was something that we always talked about, an inevitability that we all took for granted. These were promises that we made, before we were old enough to know what we were promising.
We used to be family then.
Now we're not.
I missed your wedding. I'm going to miss the birth of your children. I see now that I'm going to miss everything.
Yeah, things change. I get that. Somewhere along the line we fell out of each other's lives. Things were said. Mistakes were made. I'm not keeping score anymore. I hope you're not either. For a long time I thought we couldn't live without each other, but I see now that we can. It hurt at first, but it doesn't feel so bad. Even when I look at your wedding photos, and think to myself that we've closed this book and we can't go back.
I think to myself, maybe it's for the best.
I'm not the same person I was at ten, or fifteen, or twenty. You're not either. Yeah, I get that too. We'd recognize each other on the street now, but I think that might be it. It used to scare me, but now it doesn't. You've gotten married, started a family; I've dropped three dresses and a few bad attitudes, gotten my priorities straight. I punched some holes in my face and started working on stories that I care about, and that maybe other people might care about, too. I'd like to think we've both buried our skeletons, even if that makes me sentimental. But if I saw you on the street now I'd still say Hello. I'd like to think you'd do the same.
I guess what I mean to say is that I miss you. I miss us. I miss summer and I miss being a family. But I'm okay with that.
I'm finding I'm okay with a lot of things these days. Maybe that's for the best, too.
I hope you're doing well.
Best,
Magen
