Looking back, I can’t help but wonder. Why him?
Why do we gather, like moths, around the flame of one life and overlook the garden of lights all around us? Why, when I was sure I wanted to die, did I write to Joe?
One afternoon, slumped against my mattress, my legs tucked against the carpet, I was reading Villette by Charlotte Brontë, a novel about a woman who isn’t sure she believes in happiness but cannot bring herself to commit suicide.
“Certainly, at some hour, though perhaps not your hour, the waiting waters will stir; in some shape, though not perhaps the shape you dreamed, which your heart loved, and for which it bled, the healing herald will descend.”
I read the passage over and over, thinking only of him.
I thought of Joe M. so hard that finally, I started writing. I wrote him an email…
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