To you who call me by my true name – Brother, Son – your love to me has not been a merit, but a gift. You have loved me, not that I am lovely, but that I might be, and "goodbye" now seems too short a word to cover the distance between us. Shall I write it more than once?
To you who learned with me that essence is preceded not by existence, but by acceptance – You have lent me your strength, and, in lending, asked no usury, save my brokenness. The term "friend" has never been so abused, that it should be made to stagger under the burden of all I long for it to say. And how if I put it in bold?
Though what now shall I write to you, those whom I love? A letter of labor is easily addressed; yet if the postage is paid in tears, how costly must be the ink?
But in these deep waters of the soul – where my heart’s ballast runs thin, and its anchor fails to catch – I have crafted for myself a cord, wound not with rope but words, and I cast it to you now with all my strength, in the hope that, when this storm has passed, these waves may once more bring us close.
You see now my scheme – yet it is not mine alone! – for in every letter there resides a bit of the grappling hook, and why should I seek to disguise those prongs which lie at the heart of all I long to say? Yes, the grapnel, indeed! but also the witch’s cauldron, for with these words I weave both letter and spell.
Are we not all sharers in that secret hope that words possess a power all of their own; that a letter carries no less force than an incantation; that the pen’s predecessor is not the quill but the wand – for see how both may be flourished! – and that what we seek most amidst all our clever writing and pleasant phrases is not merely the power to express our hearts’ deepest wishes, but the power to grant them as well?
Yes, in the end it is all grappling hooks and spells, for letters belong to such as these, a patchwork family united by their promise to bring close those things which life has caused to drift apart.
Be not alarmed then, if this letter strikes at your heart! And fear not the pain of its barb – for some wounds are meant to be trusted! But rather, be of good courage and hope, setting the first as anchor and second as ballast, holding dearly to that which binds us together, tying off these simple words to both hitch and heart. And listen now for my voice – faint, for it has traveled far – with which I defy these tempestuous swells, and bring us, though not an inch more near, near once more:
“Like roads, all waves lead home!”
