Dear Nicole

I picked up one of my oldest books the other day
and I found a note from you in the back saying,
"I hope when you find this note one day
that you are thinking of me fondly."
In an instant I remembered what it was like
to be just beginning, and so, unstoppable.
When we walked together into cafes and shops
and dance halls, folks used to turn and look.
I always felt like we carried The Great Middle Path
with us wherever we went. We were about
to discover, at any moment, every drop
of what had gone missing from all our lives.
We ate only the things that would help us
live forever. And I was straight for months,
months at a time. I remember what it was like
to be straight once, lucid, mindful. I remember
what it was like to not care about
not having enough hours in the day
to thoroughly live. But I do care now;
I am desperately rushed and cannot spare
a minute because too much time has already
been spent in the clouds. I used to think
I had extra senses, was just waiting to take my place,
finally, beside the North Star and the symbol
of the next epoch. But, you know what?
I haven't remembered a single one of my dreams
in years. I'm fairly certain now it's all in
black and white, though. I sleep and
I eat in black and white, and I can see the edges
of the universe from where I stand, no more
mysteries. I still carry that one December
in my head when you finally stopped me
in the aisle. We used to pass each other
almost every afternoon, and then, one day, that
was it, one simple, "Hey. What's up?" was
all it took. We dropped everything a few weeks
later, piled what we couldn't let go of into that
station wagon we borrowed, fled the city without
asking questions, drove slowly north into the last
winter storm. The snow was thick, and we pulled over
at one point for lack of clear vision. I felt
like Noah with the howling outside,
ice instead of rain, books and changes on the inside
instead of ducks and cattle. We were
thrown together. We were not ready. We were
like two young strangers must have been
in the old country, thrown together one day,
aiming for a hillside they could plant on.
We were strangers thrown together.
We were not ready. Most of all,
I remember our designs and visions. I remember
digging holes for posts to hold our floor, milking
enough stones out of the meadow to build
a whole new world. I remember sleeping
on a single mattress inside the little cabin
we put up. Being tightly knit like that,
but still alone together, just wasn't enough,
was it? We were still ignoring some deep thirst,
weren't we, Nic, the sort of thirst a person
just can't shake these days? I laid down next to you,
listened to you breathe, listened to the wind
in the trees, and I thirsted. Thirsted for some answers,
longed for some old roads and some
new ways of living without having
to die so fast. Have you found a way to quench
your thirst? Have you found any water clean enough
to drink yet? I guess I'm writing mostly to tell you
I'm working on a book. Look for it. It will be
real and even larger than life. I am in it, of course,
and my part is that of a deliverer. No longer
like Noah, less like a simple vehicle,
now even more like a deliverer, like Moses. I am,
in fact, most like the sea that Moses parted,
divided down the middle, both sides
heaving and waiting to converge again.
There will be just enough time for
public flight through me back to the old country.
When we reach what used to shallow on the other side
of the sea bed, it will really be deep. Beyond
the banks of the sea, once the waters behind us
have met again, there will not be paths.
We will walk straight out into the expanses
we come upon nevertheless, will tangle ourselves
in the undergrowth. We will sit down peacefully
at the end of the day, and not go anywhere
again, and live forever at last.
If you can't quite find the people and the places
you were looking for way back when, then
look for this book I'm promising you, and
come along for the ride. It will really be fine,
I'm sure. Until then, be sure to quench
your thirst as if you mean it, and be sure to live
as if your kids will never die.