I don’t have a lot of close friends. It isn’t that I don’t like other humans, I do. I simply don’t really get how adults make new friends? That probably sounds weird, but I don’t know how else to explain it.
I do know many kind, lovely, and funny people—whose company I enjoy. I would certainly consider them friends, but I never feel completely at ease with them. I never feel like I can let them see all of my weird. This isn’t anything against any of them. (It’s not them, it’s me.) I’m still very skittish about letting new people into my life after my adult naivety lead me to trust several exceedingly callous and manipulative people. Anyway, my point is, I know only a few humans who know my silly and annoying, they love my compassionate and sense of humor, they understand my intelligence, my depression and my weird–and yet they adore me anyway. They get my bizarre urge to sing at animals and my desire to dance like a flailing muppet.
Despite the Atlantic Ocean’s isolation, I still maintain these close friendships—even when months pass with little contact. When we get back in touch, we seem to pick up flawlessly where we left off. It’s beautiful.
I recently received a hand-written letter from my dear friend, Ariel. It sat on my cabinet for almost a month. I took an absurdly long time to actually sit down and read it. My unusual procrastination was not because I didn’t care what she had to say. In fact, it was due to the exact opposite. I knew her words would make me feel very, very happy—yet sad at the same time. Love can provoke a certain form of loneliness.
She started the letter last July, updated it in October and it finally arrived in my little metal post box in December. Walking to my car with a delightful giddy sensation in my heart. I placed the letter in my purse, when I got into my car and drove home. Placing the little green envelope on my cabinet, I had every intention of reading it once I grabbed a fresh cup of coffee.
And there it sat quietly, for weeks. Pressed between a table lamp and a painting, I saw it several times a day—until I finally read it.
I can imagine her voice, her life, her happy moments, her unhappy moments. I feel connected despite the vast geographical distance between us. Her life has certainly changed in the years between when we last saw each other—I suppose mine has too. Yet she’s still the same beautiful individual I love. Ariel is one of those people with an almost childlike naivety and wonder at the world. She is truly caring and compassionate in a way that helps to renew my faith in humans. I am blessed to know her. I felt my eyes water a little as I finished her letter. It was amazing to hear from her, but what I would really love is to simply sit on a sofa with coffee and talk with her for hours. I would love to hear her voice and see her happy sparkling eyes—but until then, a letter will do.
Someday they will sing songs about us. The two friends….who now climb up lamposts, dance under the stars and on castles, swim in rocky lakes, smoke clove cigarettes together, laugh and talk…–Letter from Ariel