The First Letter to Catherine.
Catherine,
Despite the cold chill of the wind and the ice which is still not fully melted which is scattered along the sides of the street, I can still smell the oncoming Spring. I have been pacing the streets, trying to find the places where the sun creeps through the bulidings, illuminating a small portion of sidewalk. Memories of the sun on my skin, the ocean water crisp and creeping up to my toes. Memories of those long nights we layed still and silent beneath a shimmering sky. My feet formed prints in the sand, that stick you used to scrape words in the sand: huge hearts bearing our initials. And it seems like a silly thing to miss if you think about it: those spontaneous moments when I wore my heart on my sleeve and you plucked it's strings easily and with only your eyes.
Perhaps, and this almost seems likely, it was the ocean and it's rhythmic moments, it's steadily slapping sounds that has imbedded those brief days so solidly in my memory. But, it was also your cheeks- aglow beneath a clear sky. It was the thousand freckles which formed on your face, right before my eyes- the way they ran in a little line across your nose and scattered over your shoulders, sprinkling your cheeks. It was the smell of the salt and the sound of your voice shouting, laughing while the small waves slapped the sand. It was the way you chased me out into the water and it was the sound of the sand you smacked against my burnt back.
Regardless, though, of what, precisely, echoes in my memory it is always outlined by your eyes, by the bright blue-green hue and the way you blink: meaningfully, thoughtfully. And when I look at the pictures you took of me, those washed out and overexposed images- I can still see the smiles I held- bolder and braver than in any photo I've ever seen of myself. I can still smell your saltwashed hair. I can still feel the big bumpy bugbites which lined up along my arms, the slap of the frisbee on my palms, the smack of my arms by my ears as I lapped through the thick water. I can still feel my feet sinking in the soaking sand, the rocks and shells which made little dents in the smooth stretch of beach.
The night, the cool breeze blowing off the water, the way your eyes lit up by the fire- ablaze with thought, emotion, desire. The way your smile matched your eyes, they way they shone together by the buzzing light of the flickering flames. And we could hear the sound of the horses hooves as they ran along the beach behind us; and we could see the moon- a half moon- blazing brightly between the small stars. I felt so earth-bound then, as if I couldn't imagine myself anywhere else. So often I float and fly away from where I am standing, anywhere but present. But, with you, I feel the weight of each moment as it moves and shifts into the past, into memory.
I am now writing without thinking, remembering without really making anything of the memories. Perhaps you can make something solid of my spacey memories. Perhaps you can pull the meaning out of all these misty memories. You always could.
Yours in hope, in speech, and memory,
Fernando
Despite the cold chill of the wind and the ice which is still not fully melted which is scattered along the sides of the street, I can still smell the oncoming Spring. I have been pacing the streets, trying to find the places where the sun creeps through the bulidings, illuminating a small portion of sidewalk. Memories of the sun on my skin, the ocean water crisp and creeping up to my toes. Memories of those long nights we layed still and silent beneath a shimmering sky. My feet formed prints in the sand, that stick you used to scrape words in the sand: huge hearts bearing our initials. And it seems like a silly thing to miss if you think about it: those spontaneous moments when I wore my heart on my sleeve and you plucked it's strings easily and with only your eyes.
Perhaps, and this almost seems likely, it was the ocean and it's rhythmic moments, it's steadily slapping sounds that has imbedded those brief days so solidly in my memory. But, it was also your cheeks- aglow beneath a clear sky. It was the thousand freckles which formed on your face, right before my eyes- the way they ran in a little line across your nose and scattered over your shoulders, sprinkling your cheeks. It was the smell of the salt and the sound of your voice shouting, laughing while the small waves slapped the sand. It was the way you chased me out into the water and it was the sound of the sand you smacked against my burnt back.
Regardless, though, of what, precisely, echoes in my memory it is always outlined by your eyes, by the bright blue-green hue and the way you blink: meaningfully, thoughtfully. And when I look at the pictures you took of me, those washed out and overexposed images- I can still see the smiles I held- bolder and braver than in any photo I've ever seen of myself. I can still smell your saltwashed hair. I can still feel the big bumpy bugbites which lined up along my arms, the slap of the frisbee on my palms, the smack of my arms by my ears as I lapped through the thick water. I can still feel my feet sinking in the soaking sand, the rocks and shells which made little dents in the smooth stretch of beach.
The night, the cool breeze blowing off the water, the way your eyes lit up by the fire- ablaze with thought, emotion, desire. The way your smile matched your eyes, they way they shone together by the buzzing light of the flickering flames. And we could hear the sound of the horses hooves as they ran along the beach behind us; and we could see the moon- a half moon- blazing brightly between the small stars. I felt so earth-bound then, as if I couldn't imagine myself anywhere else. So often I float and fly away from where I am standing, anywhere but present. But, with you, I feel the weight of each moment as it moves and shifts into the past, into memory.
I am now writing without thinking, remembering without really making anything of the memories. Perhaps you can make something solid of my spacey memories. Perhaps you can pull the meaning out of all these misty memories. You always could.
Yours in hope, in speech, and memory,
Fernando
posted by Fernando at 3:25 PM
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