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Letters for Myself: Part Two

To John Smith and to the Man Who Promised Me Australia

NBC



To John Smith:

Dear Mr. Smith,

John Smith, I chuckle at the lack of creativity, as our mutual "friend" (I add the quotation marks only for you) continues her praises.

I close my eyes and say a silent prayer for her. That she’ll open her eyes and see what I’ve seen from day one.

John Smith, as common as you are not.

She speaks so highly that you’d never know that you hurt her. That you left a fragile glass of a woman that the years and people around her have tried not to shatter.

I say nothing to her, just “mmm-hmms" and “oh, ok," sounding as enthusiastic as if I were having a colonoscopy.

She doesn’t question, just prattles on about memories.

Memories like we have, a dark night on a railroad track walking fast and speaking faster. Trying to run through all our thoughts, analyzing, investigating.

Trying to make sense of a senseless and needlessly complicated life.

Trying to gain new insight.

Memories like a small hug, cuddling close, letting the world disappear, forever inside a bubble.

She tells me of a song, one I’ve not heard since I was a child.

And I hear the beginning notes of "Mr. Brightside," our voices intertwining with the rhythm.

Passion and pain howling to the poppy tune.

Oh, Mr. Smith, your motives slay me, but do not surprise me.

They’re always neutral, never good and certainly never bad.

The hero in your own mind,

The psychopath in mine.

The same cycle repeated by habit like a compulsive ritual:

Me —> Random Ex #200 —> Her

You can always call me your combination psychic/therapist.

Sometimes crazy ex-girlfriend.

But I like to think of myself as your antithesis.

The good guy when you’re bad,

The bad guy when you’re good.

She prattles on and I know no matter what I say, you have that spell on her, that power to mold her to what you want.

You win, you always win.

Congratulations,

Mrs. Jones

To the Man Who Promised Me Australia:

Dear Promise Breaker,

I’m childish, I know, this shouldn’t be on the internet or in a notebook with a kitten in black and white on it.

But I can’t face you.

Not because I’m scared or feel uncomfortable to do so, but you don’t want to face me.

So I’m not the only child, I suppose.

What seems like ages ago although it was only 12ish years ago, not yet a teenager in its own right, feels sometimes like yesterday.

When I drive the highway or make love to my husband or see a white Christmas tree, I’m back in my old apartment, the stiff smell clogging my nose.

The dim lights surrounding my vision as I notice the freckles on the back of your neck.

You’re a twig and I remember being the big spoon. The one holding you, the “man” in the relationship most of the time because you enjoy being submissive (Though I know that women are the dominant ones most of the times nowadays).

I can see your gentle voice and curly hair (a color near red and not quite orange).

Your old, red, rust bucket idling outside and the seats surprisingly soft in my younger hands.

But what I remember most:

The promises.

Ah, the promise of love. Your voice promising you love me.

Cute. Not true. Never true.


The promise of future and family. What you promised my family on the eve of a new year.

An engagement, complete with a ring and the man I love on my arm.

A wedding complete with a white wedding dress and my dad walking me down the aisle.

My best friends in yellow dresses, tears filling their eyes.

Yellow flowers (fake, because allergies) in my hand.

Children, chubby cheeked and redheads, glancing up at us with adoration in their green eyes.

A dog or a cat, maybe a lion. Whatever we want.

A house with a yard. Gorgeous and roomy.

Lies. Lies. And More Lies.


The promise of Australia and travels around the world.

Of wallabies and koalas, rubbing elbows with dingoes and kangaroos.

Of exploring and wild train rides.

The beauty of country and city of the down under.

The flight was cancelled apparently before it was booked.


You promise so much and I know most of the promises will never come to pass.

I’m not as naive as you or I believe.


However, I go with it.

Why?

Well, who wants to be alone at 19, I guess.


I can point all your mistakes and promises out and I have pretty much.

But I can point out my biggest mistake (other than trusting you) and that is never having you promise me the ONE promise you should’ve made:

The promise of loyalty.


I used to wish we could talk, but those days are long gone.

You have nothing to say?

Fine. I do.

Not to your face, not anymore.

You’re too much of a coward (if you’re even alive) and I’m not.

I’m no longer the scared college student afraid of losing you.

I’m now the confident 30-something wife of an amazing man who kept his promises.


Have a fantastic life (hopefully in Australia with the huge spiders and man-eating crocodiles).

Mrs. Getting Less Cattywumpus

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