Underneath all the socks in my sock drawers, I hide all of the letters The Boy has written me in the past three years. One-half of a peculiar conversation. It's a rather irregular correspondence, ranging in frequency from a day to a month and a half between letters.
More than anything else, I think, those letters define who I am.
For the almost seven years we've known each other, The Boy has been my best friend. And, for six of those years, we've written to each other regularly.
My love of writing comes in part from these letters. The Boy has such an unusual, distinct style that writing to him, or even just reading his letters takes considerable thought and a great deal of culture. His fondness for rare words and old school references has introduced me to a whole new world of thinking and writing.
There are pages and pages of letters. Some are sad, some are happy, some are funny, some just factual. All of them are written with tenderness.
The Boy and I have helped each other through hard times. Family, school, depression, parents, siblings. He's a source of good advice, and even when he has none, he always has a kind word to offer.
Through those years and those letters, we've grown together. We know each other well enough to have a large insight into the other's thoughts. We are very different people, yet very similar in many ways. Together, we work perfectly.
Because of the distance, we don't spend much time together. But it works for us. Maybe our letters aren't the stuff of the great novels (you know, the ones with grassy hills, chalky cliffs, family mansions, tearful farewells on a windy day and whatnot), but they serve their purpose well. We are like Cyrano and Roxanne, except Roxanne isn't quite that shallow. And that pesky Christian guy doesn't get in the way.
I couldn't think of a more perfect person to be in love with than The Boy.
More than anything else, I think, those letters define who I am.
For the almost seven years we've known each other, The Boy has been my best friend. And, for six of those years, we've written to each other regularly.
My love of writing comes in part from these letters. The Boy has such an unusual, distinct style that writing to him, or even just reading his letters takes considerable thought and a great deal of culture. His fondness for rare words and old school references has introduced me to a whole new world of thinking and writing.
There are pages and pages of letters. Some are sad, some are happy, some are funny, some just factual. All of them are written with tenderness.
The Boy and I have helped each other through hard times. Family, school, depression, parents, siblings. He's a source of good advice, and even when he has none, he always has a kind word to offer.
Through those years and those letters, we've grown together. We know each other well enough to have a large insight into the other's thoughts. We are very different people, yet very similar in many ways. Together, we work perfectly.
Because of the distance, we don't spend much time together. But it works for us. Maybe our letters aren't the stuff of the great novels (you know, the ones with grassy hills, chalky cliffs, family mansions, tearful farewells on a windy day and whatnot), but they serve their purpose well. We are like Cyrano and Roxanne, except Roxanne isn't quite that shallow. And that pesky Christian guy doesn't get in the way.
I couldn't think of a more perfect person to be in love with than The Boy.
3 comments:
Lucky you, long may it last.
What an absolutely perfect posting for the 14 February. What a beautiful love story. May you continue to treasure The Boy and may The Boy continue to treasure The Girl.
Thank you.
I'm hoping it lasts too.
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