My dearest heart,
For some kind of forever I’ve been waiting, waiting for you to come, and I can wait no longer. I must write you now, for surely my chest will explode if I wait one second more.
For some kind of forever I’ve been thinking you had to be a certain someone. As in, else. And not just any old else, but a very special someone else.
(Let me just say that there have been ones. Special ones. Especially one. And maybe there will be more—a girl can hope!—but I can wait no longer because honest to freaking lord my heart is fairly bursting with all the things I would tell you, if you were here.)
And then today, out of the blue gray (on account of living in Boston during the wettest Spring/Summer since 19-freaking-03!) I was like: it’s you! Yes, you and you and you. So now I don’t have to wait for you any longer. Because, um, here you are!
Oh my. Where to start…
There’s something on my heart. It’s got to do with home. With finding home. With making home. With not feeling at—
Home.
How can a word be so beautiful and heartbreaking at once. How! Can you tell me that, dearest heart?
Because for some kind of forever I’ve been homesick. Heimweh. Echando de menos. Whatever the language, no matter: it was some kind of heart-breaking thought of home. At 11 I remember sitting in Social Studies, my insides getting squeezed like some kind of sopping wet cloth… my throat so thick I could hardly swallow.
For a long time I blamed homesick on the hows and wheres of growing up, having been away from home early and for long times. I also blamed it on being a cultural mutt, somehow an outsider, sort of maybe kind of from wherever I was but not really, always looking or sounding—even if just a teensy weensy bit—foreign. I concluded that homesick was about being different and being away and missing people I loved.
But maybe it was you I was missing, dearest heart. You. And maybe it was me that was away, my mind always imagining what I’d be doing if I was there, if I was OK, and about just how OK I would be:
If only I were there picking raspberries with them in the backyard…
If only I were there enjoying the mid-summer lake with them…
If only she were here to tuck me in…
If only I didn’t have these chub cheeks…
If only they took me in…
If only they understood me…
If only I had a special love…
If only was mighty lonely. And lonely makes it hard to see anyone else. Like you, for example.
So, it’s about time, wouldn’t you say? Time to write to you, my dearest heart. Yes you, reading this, if you want. And, would you mind if I bring If only? She could use some lovin up.
Well, love, that’s all for now. I just wanted to say hi. I’m right here, if you want me. But then, you knew that.
Yours and mine,
Heidi