Transcribed note:
Dear Jordan,
You helped me cry today, legs buckled at 35 degrees, spread at a tilt on patchy browning grass. No marker or tombstone in sight - but why would i have known? I paced for an hour or so through the lives and expiration of other people, everyone else, until eventually, I gave in and collapsed in my spot. I bent my head down into the cemetery grass and breathed in its dry earth. Five days before this i had stood perfectly tall, just inches away from the full length mirror hanging in the 3rd floor restroom of Austin's Public Library waiting to cry. Drought. All flood gates dusted and barricaded off. No fucking tears. And yet there I stood, without a blink, waiting like a teenager to watch myself break down. Not one fucking tear for my own humiliation - biding hours on hold for a stranger that i knew wasn't coming back for me - or for my own disorientation - alone for nearly two months now without 24 hours actually to myself - or for my flailing confusion - how the fuck did i get here? So after what seemed like days doubled over the cemetery green, I threw my head back to stare up at the freezing blue Fort Worth skies, and i laughed.
"Well... this is about to be trite." I choke and feel tears well up behind dried lids.
"I have no idea where the fuck you are Jordan... or where I am for that matter. Ha. Maybe I'm right on top of you, in which case, well, i'm terribly sorry. Damn. These things are fucked - do you know that? Words never pour out the way you'd expect them to in a cemetery. It'd like they gag you with freshly cut flowers and black veils the moment you stroll through those ashy gates. Or you get a terrible case of the social hiccups causing you to spurt out insignificant bursts of words, either incoherent or totally unrelated to whatever you intended to say. Kind of like now." Hic
I tell you about Candice and Will and Steph and Ajooni and Poonam and Ian and Hannah and Alana and Megan and Leslie and Lawrence and Andrew and, fuck, the list goes on forever. It's cliffs-notes upon cliffs-notes; menial but at the moment seemingly vital basics about the lives of those people... us... the people who you flipped around with your first smile. I stutter and laugh and hiccup some more. 10 minutes trail into 40 and by the time i'm finally out of things to say I perch my elbow on my hip and slide my hand under my chin - my cheeks are soaked, streaked with 40 minutes worth of tears that had gone unnoticed. I grab for my phone and pull up your mother's number, seeing it glow on my screen. My thumb shakes over the dial key but i can't seem to press down, afraid that I'll hiccup and she'll hear my tear-stained cheeks and broken posture.
Dear Jordan, your city is beautiful and very much alive. People here are laughing and moving and suffering through it all. It's the reason i'm here and traveling, to watch this kind of motion and get pulled into the cement current. And as much as i remind myself to avoid the act of wishing, I find myself wishing now, for the first time more than ever, that i could just call, pull you out for drinks, tuck the two of us into a corner and watch your eyes scan my face. We could detail old developments of our lives and others'. We could eat and laugh and avoid heavy topics. We could say too much and take deep gulps of brown beers but instead, I just run my fingers over damp cheeks and babble on about everything but. Everything but the glaring blue skied truth of it all which is, here, on this freezing Fort Worth day, I, like the rest of the world, miss you.
"I have to go," I swallow raspy remnants of voice. Leaning forward, I hesitate, then press my lips to the scratchy ground. I push my palms down and lift my body up onto unsteady feet. I laugh at how badly i suddenly have to pee and flag down an employee on golf cart. He waves me on board and floors it to the nearest restroom. Tears dry quickly with the flow of this air and I know it's time to leave this place. Move on from this city and let the passing wind take loss and fear and humiliation and hiccups in my exit. Always, missing you.
Love,
Rachel
Dear Jordan,
You helped me cry today, legs buckled at 35 degrees, spread at a tilt on patchy browning grass. No marker or tombstone in sight - but why would i have known? I paced for an hour or so through the lives and expiration of other people, everyone else, until eventually, I gave in and collapsed in my spot. I bent my head down into the cemetery grass and breathed in its dry earth. Five days before this i had stood perfectly tall, just inches away from the full length mirror hanging in the 3rd floor restroom of Austin's Public Library waiting to cry. Drought. All flood gates dusted and barricaded off. No fucking tears. And yet there I stood, without a blink, waiting like a teenager to watch myself break down. Not one fucking tear for my own humiliation - biding hours on hold for a stranger that i knew wasn't coming back for me - or for my own disorientation - alone for nearly two months now without 24 hours actually to myself - or for my flailing confusion - how the fuck did i get here? So after what seemed like days doubled over the cemetery green, I threw my head back to stare up at the freezing blue Fort Worth skies, and i laughed.
"Well... this is about to be trite." I choke and feel tears well up behind dried lids.
"I have no idea where the fuck you are Jordan... or where I am for that matter. Ha. Maybe I'm right on top of you, in which case, well, i'm terribly sorry. Damn. These things are fucked - do you know that? Words never pour out the way you'd expect them to in a cemetery. It'd like they gag you with freshly cut flowers and black veils the moment you stroll through those ashy gates. Or you get a terrible case of the social hiccups causing you to spurt out insignificant bursts of words, either incoherent or totally unrelated to whatever you intended to say. Kind of like now." Hic
I tell you about Candice and Will and Steph and Ajooni and Poonam and Ian and Hannah and Alana and Megan and Leslie and Lawrence and Andrew and, fuck, the list goes on forever. It's cliffs-notes upon cliffs-notes; menial but at the moment seemingly vital basics about the lives of those people... us... the people who you flipped around with your first smile. I stutter and laugh and hiccup some more. 10 minutes trail into 40 and by the time i'm finally out of things to say I perch my elbow on my hip and slide my hand under my chin - my cheeks are soaked, streaked with 40 minutes worth of tears that had gone unnoticed. I grab for my phone and pull up your mother's number, seeing it glow on my screen. My thumb shakes over the dial key but i can't seem to press down, afraid that I'll hiccup and she'll hear my tear-stained cheeks and broken posture.
Dear Jordan, your city is beautiful and very much alive. People here are laughing and moving and suffering through it all. It's the reason i'm here and traveling, to watch this kind of motion and get pulled into the cement current. And as much as i remind myself to avoid the act of wishing, I find myself wishing now, for the first time more than ever, that i could just call, pull you out for drinks, tuck the two of us into a corner and watch your eyes scan my face. We could detail old developments of our lives and others'. We could eat and laugh and avoid heavy topics. We could say too much and take deep gulps of brown beers but instead, I just run my fingers over damp cheeks and babble on about everything but. Everything but the glaring blue skied truth of it all which is, here, on this freezing Fort Worth day, I, like the rest of the world, miss you.
"I have to go," I swallow raspy remnants of voice. Leaning forward, I hesitate, then press my lips to the scratchy ground. I push my palms down and lift my body up onto unsteady feet. I laugh at how badly i suddenly have to pee and flag down an employee on golf cart. He waves me on board and floors it to the nearest restroom. Tears dry quickly with the flow of this air and I know it's time to leave this place. Move on from this city and let the passing wind take loss and fear and humiliation and hiccups in my exit. Always, missing you.
Love,
Rachel
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