New Hope

wrote this a while back, too. to my friend Ashley, we've definitely talked since i wrote this (4.14.2004), but not as much as i would like. miss this.

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Dear Ashley,

I’m near the water now, standing on the bridge, minutes from the dozens of shops we used to almost live in, and I’m very close to your favorite, the one with the stickers and candles you like so much. It’s very rainy, but I’m fine. The rain lets the water do its thing, straddling the legs of the bridge and punching the sides of the land with great strength. How are you? I want to find the love those shop owners once shoved in our faces—I wonder if our giggles that followed were riddles to their ears, or if inside there existed a kind of connection. I remember watching the ducks in that one pond, near the theater, and I would look at you and them, you and them, and then most likely we’d head to lunch after a cigarette. Summers are beautiful here. In my old car, before it went far off that road and died, we listened to good music, music we understood and felt. So many dollars we let melt out of the ATMs and into cash registers. But it didn’t matter, the future didn’t exist to us then, nothing else did except the streets with unusual shops and food and people. Now, today, I’m alone. No one I know is here, I can’t feel, and I’m hungry. I just went to that one ice cream shop that has the almond flavor we adored, with the mean employees that always seemed extremely bored with life. And the stairs where up top we threw away our cares and turned to books and magazines. In a desperate attempt I guess to somehow ignore the cold rain drops on me, I’m thinking of that place as I write you. And it’s working, kind of. We are slightly stoned as we saunter along the brightly lit streets. We just indulged in the almond flavored ice cream and I see that the summer is working hard for us, the night is lovely, and the idea comes to me that we should get tattoos. Tattoos below our shoes, I say. On our feet. Like sisters, friends, good friends, forever. But neither happened: not the tattooed feet, not the part about forever. That’s why I’m writing this letter, because this place is beautiful still, even when it’s raining hard, you’re still slipping through the cracks of the sidewalk as I check the clock above the bank and climb the stretch back to my car. Here I go again shouting aimlessly until there is no end, whispering to you the silent story of my life. I say whispering because I do not call, I write instead, as if all is ok when the truth is that I miss you terribly. Perhaps we’ll talk one day, maybe here at the restaurant with the outside seating. Do you think I’m asking too much? God knows I want the tea with all the sugar. He knows that I want the thick milk to stir it with. And when I sip the power, he also knows that I often think of you. I know I’m selfish and I’m so afraid to find out the truth that I hide in it because I can’t admit that I want to know the answer. I want two years ago back: when we shook our hips around and around and our eyes never once touched the ground. I still want to dance the streets at midnight with you, bow to the fancy moon at dawn, wrinkle our noses at people. I want to wear a morbid face as we swallow espresso in unison. I want to bow to the goddess, although our heads held high, drink from the almighty sky, then fall below into a shop with trashy hippie skirts. Perfect insanity led us to each other. Gotta love New Hope. Gotta love us.