letters

I wonder if she’s ever written a letter?

That’s a valid question nowadays. I figure the more the years go by, the less likely it is that a person has ever written a letter. They may still have received one, because people who used to get letters may still be sending them.

It’s a lot like e-mail’s slow death. While they’ve only been around a couple decades, they’re going bye-bye (not really, since facebook really is just e-mail, but not really…) Letters on the other hand, have been around since paper.

I used to love writing letters. And getting them.

The last letter I wrote was to my grandmother. I should write her more often.

Before that, it was Crystal.

Which is where I just began this story. I wonder if she’s ever written one?

One night we were talking about communication. About how we should do better at it. Especially with the looming her moving out of my apartment 60 miles away coming up. Little did I know then, that the entire conversation was pretty much a lie. Just like every thing else, it seems in that ugly relationship.

Honestly, other than the girl that got my virginity, Crystal is the only gal that I don’t have good feelings about anymore. And it’s all because she was just a liar. As bad of one as a person can be.

I should have known when we had that conversation. She had already surmised that the written word, for me, goes a lot smoother than the spoken. At least when pressed. When stream of consciousness hits me, I can talk up a storm, but when I’m asked a question, not so much…

(and that’s where I lost interest last night…)

***

The dead silence of the place is comforting. The eye of the storm must be passing over. The rain has stopped. The wind has stopped. And so has that howl. That deafening howl. The wind doesn’t try to frighten you, it just does. Because it knows that you know there’s nothing you can do to slow it down. You can stand inside a building. It will knock it down. You can get in your car. It will pick it up and toss it. You can run. But it is faster.

For now, it’s gone.

So, like any sane person, I go outside and assess the damage.

A couple of flipped over trees. A downed power line. The bar’s window is shattered.

I walk down to the beach. It’s been decimated. The sand is at least four, five feet lower off the dunes. There are a few cliff-like areas where the beach was strong, but the water just carved out a path around it.

Then, just like before, the wind starts up again. Howling like an aircraft’s engine. Then the rain. It stings as the wind slaps it against your face. Not as bad as the sand, however, which hits and cuts into your skin.

But instead of running the couple of blocks back to the house, you stay on the beach. This is too good to miss. And you may never live at the beach again. Hell, you may never live again. So why not?

The water is like beer. It always looks that color here, never blue like they tell you it should be. Or even green like the place is named for “Emerald Isle”, ha. Too much military dumping I guess.

The wind adds to the illusion. Blowing the frothy bubbles about like the foam on a good pint of Guinness. It’s warm too, just like it should be.

I watch a big swath of the foam drift up towards me. I stick my hand down into the sand and grab a giant piece of it, shoving into my mouth. The salty taste makes me feel good. I don’t know why, but I’ve always loved getting salt water in my mouth. I’m surprised that I didn’t drink it as a kid. Well, on purpose at least. The drinking of it after a wave knocks you under doesn’t really count. Especially when you’re filled with fear as it drags you underneath the current.

The ocean is one thing I’ve never been afraid of. I never had to conquer a fear of the water.

But right now, it’s menacing. I do respect it. And it seems to be telling me something. Every time I inch closer to the water, a giant wave cascades along and pushes me back.

“You know better,” it seems to be telling me.

Just like my last girlfriend. The one who didn’t write letters.

I wrote her. She said she’d write me back.

Never did.

I’d write her again.

Nada.

After she broke my heart, using the same rusty screwdriver that I had wedged out of my chest from the last time, but stupidly left sitting on my mantle, to rip my heart open again -- I wrote her again.

She sent me an e-mail, months later.

Apologizing.

I fell for it again.

And she didn’t need a weapon this time. I realized it before it got too dangerous and I just ran away, broken again, but only dripping blood and not spout out of me like a geyser.

Live and learn.