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december 24, 2024

Dear Michelle,

Writing that felt weird. I want to write Shelly but I shouldn’t assume you still go by your high school nickname. Do you? Still go by your nickname? I guess you can let me know. Or don’t. You’re not required to respond to this letter, if you don’t want to.

It’s been six years since I’ve seen you face-to-face. If I’ve seen you more recently, then I have to apologize because I don’t remember it in the slightest. To be frank, I don’t remember much from the past six years. I went down a dark hole and I’m only finally climbing out of it.

I will admit though, the first thing I thought of was you.

The last time I saw you was at my mother’s funeral. I remember noticing your hair was blonde, and how it made your green eyes look like shiny limes. Are you still a blonde? I thought it looked really nice.

As for what you said to me at my mother’s funeral…I remember none of it. Besides noticing your hair, the only other thing I remember from that day was this tiny brown speck in the floorboard beneath my shoes. The spot was remarkable. It was the perfect shape of a donkey, and I remember just staring at it. People came and gave their condolences, but my only focus was on that donkey. I wondered if it was destiny that a donkey was in the floorboard of a dusty church reception hall, given that Jesus traveled into Jerusalem on a donkey and all of that. My therapist says my obsession with this donkey was a coping mechanism for my grief. I believe her. She tends to be right about everything.

After you said whatever you said, you handed me a slip of paper. I shoved it in the pocket of my trousers and I think I gave you a hug, but my mind goes blank after that. I never opened that slip of paper. Not until today. I’m going through my mom’s house, organizing all of our stuff and getting rid of things, and I found those trousers. They were wrinkled on the floor, right where I left them six years ago. That day, after the funeral, I’d stripped off my suit and gotten in my childhood bed, and I didn’t get out of it for two days straight. When I did, I ate an entire frozen pizza. Still frozen.

The slip of paper contained your address, but not your phone number. I texted your old number but it bounced back, so I’m assuming you have a new one. So here I am instead. Writing you a letter.

I’m back in town, for the time being. I’m cleaning out Mom’s house and getting it ready to sell, then I’m not really sure where I’ll go. I spent the first two years in Boston, then came home to clean myself up a bit. It’s a long story…and maybe one that you don’t care to hear. But I’m okay now.

How are you? Are you still playing the flute? I haven’t picked up my saxophone in years. I guess it makes me sad. But I did find it the other day, collecting dust and being completely neglected, both things my mother told me not to do in high school. She told me to keep practicing, to drill those marching band numbers until I could play them in my sleep. I think if I picked it up, I could still play some of them.

I will stop ranting now. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry for never saying anything to you that day. You’d flown back to Massachusetts from school, missing class so you could be there, and I couldn’t even manage a single word in your direction. I’m not even sure if this letter will get to you now, you probably graduated and don’t live in California anymore. I hope you don’t hate me. I hope you have a lovely Christmas. I hope you’re happy.

Feel free to burn this,

Jake

december 28, 2024

Jakey Jake,

Wow. Well first, I’m not even going to hesitate using your nickname. Can you even call it a nickname if it was simply the name I used to annoy the shit out of you? Again, will not hesitate. Of course you can still call me Shelly.

Getting your letter in the mail was a balm to my tired, weary soul. Okay, a touch dramatic, but it’s kind of true. Christmas was absolutely lovely, but these winter months after always suck. They’re cold, dreary, and miserable…especially in Mass. I’m counting down the days to June when I can drive back home to Mariner’s Cove and slurp on some fresh oysters and get a sunburn sitting outside looking at the water for too long. Counting. Down. The. Days.

You are correct, by the way. I left Los Angeles and moved back home. Well…not exactly home; I’m two hours away. I’m glad I still have my mail forwarding or I would have never received your letter. My new address is on the return label, and I also wrote it below.

Jakey Jake, what’s happened over the past six years? I know you said it’s kind of a long story, but I want the details. Are you okay now? Are you safe? I would hate to think you’re suffering and all alone and cleaning out your mother’s house. I will drive down and help you, if that’s something you need.

Yes, I’m still blonde. You can thank LA for that. I dyed my hair after my first semester at UCLA, and I’ve been a blonde ever since. My parents say it matches my personality, and you know what, they’re probably right.

I do still play the flute. Actually, fun fact; I play all the instruments. I finished my degree in music at UCLA and I am (surprise, surprise) a band director at Colchester Academy. Didn’t see that coming, right? I know, how unoriginal that the girl who fell in love with marching band decided to be a band nerd the rest of her life.

Do you remember the day we won States? I think about it all the time. I remember standing on the field at attention when they announced our win. Kiera marched to grab the trophy and I had to stand there all stoic, but my eyes were blurry with tears as the rest of the band screamed in the stands. I remember you got on Hernandez’s shoulders and lifted your sweatshirt, your chest covered in red paint with a white stallion at the center. When in the world did you paint your chest, by the way? And were you the only one?

I guess it’s been on my mind lately because my students don’t care. I’ve tried to tell them how exhilarating it is to win such a big award, but they’re so unmotivated. They’d rather make out on the band bus than prepare their dot books, and they certainly don’t run when I tell them to reset. I mean, I don’t get it; you can still make out on the band bus and be good at band. At least that’s how I always felt.

I refuse to burn your letter. My roommate Rachel actually thinks it’s sweet that you wrote to me instead of trying to track down my phone number. I could give it to you and make our lives easier, maybe catch up on the phone. But you know what? This is far more fun. I would like your very long story via written note. Bonus points if you use a quill.

You should pick up your sax and see how much you actually remember. Or you could make a generous donation to Colchester Academy’s Marching Band.

Actually…don’t. Those pipsqueaks won’t appreciate it.

Shelly

december 31, 2024

Shelly,