Memento Mori

Dear friend, 

     I am writing this letter from the cliffside of a park overlooking the ocean. There are mountains in the distance so I’m not quite sure if this is a bay or an inlet or whatever term my teacher used to describe it in my eleventh grade biology class.

All I know is that the water is a brilliant mixture of azure blue and teal green, it’s as clear and bright as a child’s face when their father buys them ice cream after church on Sunday.

I’ve had a lot on my mind these last few days.

I apologize for taking so long to write. I’ve been thinking about the people I’ve lost and the people I still have, the places I’ve gone and the places I've yet to go.

I’d really like to visit Paris one day. To live in an apartment with a view of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, and its lights that twinkle brightly when it’s half past ten and the drunkards have just started drinking and the lonesome have just started writing. I would really like to experience that someday. Perhaps I will even write you a letter or two while I’m there, tell you all about how beautiful it is and how I wish you were there with me.

I’ve been spending quite some time beside the ocean. My face and body have grown used to the seaside breeze and its chill that is both tickling and refreshing, like the excitement inside when you see an old friend at the grocery store buying items for their mother who wants to cook a special soup for dinner. In truth, I have never been much of a cook except for this one time I fried eggs for my dad on Father’s Day morning after he came off a night shift. I thought it would be a nice surprise to come home to. The eggs weren’t very good but he said he enjoyed them anyway. I really appreciated that.

All this time near the ocean has really gotten me away from being in my own head. To hear the singing of birds and the rush of cars speeding on the road just behind the trees separating concrete from sand. It’s been a struggle to write and to even just pick up my notebook; I feel that there are far too many things to write about and it seems impossible to find the right words for you to understand.

But I figured I would write anyway.

I finished a book I had been given by a friend many years ago yesterday. I’m in the process of reading it again. Its conclusion prompted me to send an email I probably shouldn’t have sent but did anyway. In all honesty, I miss her. Even though she may have already found someone else and is even happier than when I last saw her, I can’t help but remember. But I won’t go making excuses and finding justifications as to why I still care for someone who’s no longer here because I feel that you have someone like that too. In a way, I’m a little less alone in my struggle, knowing that I’m not the only one who’s lost something great and wonderful to the unstoppable current that is time.

Maybe it’s just the way life goes.

To get over my thoughts, I’ve been spending more time with my friends lately. We all go to the same house on the same days and do the same things each time. It sounds boring and repetitive but it’s actually somewhat calming, knowing that there are some things that don’t change, some people who withstand the current despite the chaos of it all. I’d tell you their names but I don’t think they’d appreciate that.

After all, they have no idea who you are. So I’ll give them “alternate” names.

Marcus is the name of my friend who’s house we always visit. He enjoys staying home and playing video games on a computer he ordered back in April and didn’t receive until the middle of June. He was really happy about getting it even though it took them two months to deliver; I probably wouldn’t have reacted the same way.

Then there’s Anthony who almost always beats all of us when we play basketball, it’s honestly terrifying trying to guard him but it’s all in good fun. We were really close when we were younger but life moves forward and people do too. I’m just glad that I can still call him my friend.

Julius on the other hand, is someone that I haven’t known for very long but still makes it feel like we were childhood friends; excluding the sappy memories and inside jokes. We both don’t have our driver’s license and it’s something that we share and laugh about on days when we want to meet up but have no appealing means to do so. There’s always the bus but it’s not the same these days. He has his road test earlier than I do so I think he’ll get it first, then we can get to wherever we want to go without spending two dollars on the bus or asking that friend who lives ten minutes away to pick us up from our houses. A few weeks later from his test and I might have my license too!

There are so many exciting things to look forward to. Upcoming events that get lost amidst the fog of a bad day or a subpar week, it’s important to remember those future days when all is sad and grey and you forget to bring an umbrella to work and it starts to rain on your way home. Because maybe tomorrow holds pockets of sunshine and your mom makes you hash browns and everything doesn’t seem so heavy anymore.

Oliver is my good friend who reminds me of this and watches cartoons during his spare time. The other day he took me to the bookstore and we picked out a few novels suited for this autumn month. On the ride to Marcus’ house, we both agreed that life can be so loud at times that all you need to find that perfect peace and quiet is a good book and a mug of hot chocolate to make everything right.

It was only recently I realized that the authors of the books I’ve read are regular human beings just like you and I. They have lived and loved just like us. And their books are pieces of themselves that encapsulate all that they are and all that they believe, expressing themselves in such a way that emotion and passion spill off the pages and land on the fingertips of the read.

Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Kerouac, Angelou, have all lived and died but their words carry on. They themselves were finite but their words are infinite.

I write about these things because I would like to do the same. I would like to dream and live in such a way that I am compelled to write about all the tragedy and beauty that this story called Life could possibly offer. I was born on Halloween and the date of my passing is a mystery; just like everything else in between. The days that have come, the day that remains and the days that follow.

Those moments yet to be lived and undocumented stories between the time of our birth and our death are like a waterfall that separates the running stream from the hollow cave.

I am sitting at my desk, writing this to you in hopes that you’ve had the time to read. I write these letters to you because I know you listen and try your best to understand. Just like my friends who are all home now just as I am.

Maybe they’re writing something too. 

Love always, 

Rave

Wharton H. Esherick, Of a Great City, 1923