Dear H,
The moment construction finished on the elevator, I knew you’d go to her.
She was your first love. If I looked up at all, it was only for stars.
As a child, before the Earth was domed with muck, my father took me outside and pointed to the sky and said Look girl, the Southern Cross. I couldn’t see it. I strained my eyes towards where he pointed, directly above the Jacksons’ weathervane. The sky was a mess of brilliant blinking.
Once, there was a countryside to take holidays to. Tides could be predicted, and whole families could stand on a beach just before bedtime, competing to find the brightest star. I pointed to a street light, and my sisters and parents found my inability to find a star so funny that I never told them it was a joke.
If even static stars avoided me, it was hopeless to look for them shooting or falling to make wishes on. I made wishes on things closer to the ground: eyelashes, lit candles, dandelions.
I forgot to ever gaze upon the moon. I thought I had more time to learn how to marvel. And after she was gone—after detritus finally hid her pockmarked, wasted crescent—I only missed her because you did.
And I knew you’d take the elevator.
She was your first love. Your bones pulsed to the regularity of the ocean going in and out. Your blood thrummed with her waxing and waning. She anchored you as everything else let you go. And you have spent a long time pretending that your skin doesn’t miss her gift to you, the tides. And I can never know her.
Back when streets were still moonlit, and we had the breath to wander them, you’d stop and pull at my hand and point and say Look, there she is. When she was full and near, you’d lead me to stand side-by-side with you in the opennest field: your eyes raised, smile broad, heart yearning. Meanwhile, each time I tried to fall in love with her, I instead fell more into you.
So I never formally introduced myself to her. Eventually, I asked you to present me to the sky, to speak my name in the dark open and ask if I might look at her the way you do. My love, I wanted you to do it with your feet to the earth. I never meant you to go that far.
I felt the swoop in my gut, when they built the elevator.
Please remember: if your forehead is pressed to a mirror, you won’t see your own face. If you step onto her skin, she can’t be what you fell in love with. She is not your only anchor now—but I understand why you must make the trip.
I’m sorry I can’t come. My feet belong in the dirt. While you’re up there, though, I’ll wave towards the thick, soupy grey. I’ll live with one arm swaying in the sky. You won’t see me, through the distance and the debris. But while you worship your first love, think of me.
Love,
Featured photo courtesy of Hebe Kearney.
