Lovesong for Anna

Dear Anna,

Look at me. I am writing this because it is absolutely impossible to tell you any of it. Not because it is wrong, not because wolves will fetch your babies if I do. Only because I can’t say it in person, not face to face, not with gestures, not over the phone, not to you, not like that. Why? Because you don’t deserve it. This song, Anna, is not really a song but let’s pretend it’s a song so I can sing it easier. And my singing voice, Anna, is not the prettiest . You call, you write, you ask why. Actually, you don’t even ask why. I imagine you ask why or shall we say, why not? In words, you ask about the weather, the whereabouts; the here and there of life. In fact, strangers always talk about the weather. We’re not strangers? We are. So let me answer questions you haven’t asked in person for the same reasons I can’t answer them in person.

Let’s face it; at your age, it’s impossible for you to understand what I am singing about; but let’s be fair too; at my age, I’ve forgotten the notes you sing. Age doesn’t make any of us better or better looking. It doesn’t make us worse either. Time is useless. Time’s job is the job of a blind librarian; cataloging chaos. But how does one catalog chaos?

It seems that my doors and windows to you are shut. These shut doors and windows don’t reflect much sunlight. You sit and wonder why. Are you not enough? What is wrong with you? Nothing is wrong with you, Anna. You are beautiful, your golden hair, be it real or be it painted reflects more sunlight than the cigarette smoke which drifts away from my beard as I yell at the gatekeeper “Let the dogs in!”

I know I started something I can’t finish. Blame me. I am good at taking it. Only don’t blame yourself. Ever. I dream that you imagine a plateau which people call the world. And in that world, is a village, where you and I can watch horses play in black sand and whiskey flows in the rivers. But I am not there, Anna. Not because of you, not because I don’t trust your horses, not because your horses are are toothless.

I just can’t ride horses whose shoes I haven’t made myself. Let’s be friends?