Dear Bellingham

We just never hit it off, did we?
I became one of yours without ever
having come to check you out
at the start. I still remember the first
weekend after I moved, I was
distraught after taking one look
at local papers. "THIS is your
average weekend in late summer?"
I thought. Indeed, I proceeded
to endure several years of mind-numbing
solitude and abject boredom within your
confines. You have come to symbolize,
in my recollection, the half-baked,
half-hearted nature of much of
the Northwest, pretending to be
what you're not, imagining yourself
as more but having no clue what
more actually lies in the fields of
the real world. I used to stand out
in a field near my apartment
six miles outside town and wonder
what I was doing with my life, how
it was I found myself, at my age,
standing alone in a field looking
up at the stars on a Saturday night.
I did eventually find a woman
to love, but the whole thing was
forced and, of course, didn't last;
I also made something of a mark
later in my career, but even that
never brought any love home to stay.
I'm still not certain what exactly
I learned during my time of
exile in your cold parts, north
wind setting a slight chill over
all of you. I suppose I did
learn a lot about retaining one's
humanity in the face of a poverty
of the soul. I must admit to you,
though, that I do regret every
minute I languished in you.
If I could have those years back,
the best years of my young-adult
life, I'd take them in a split second.
I can't have them so I'm left
hoping it's true what they say,
that what doesn't kill you makes
you stronger. At some points,
I could have sworn you'd be
the death of me. I'm still here,
for better or worse, and, thankfully
far from you. All I can really say
is good riddance. Adam

(2007)