Dear Meiji,  

          This is the sixteenth letter I have written to you. Doubtless it will be the sixteenth letter I will shred. You can only imagine how much tact I've lost in the last fifteen attempts to reach out  to you.  

          I still wear the same brand of aftershave you bought me for Christmas when we were  eighteen. Walking past a smoker, I can only smell traces of you. I have found myself pondering  these little things. Yesterday I looked in the mirror; I still have a scar from when I jumped down  from the hawthorn tree and caught my arm on one of the branches.

          I find you in little places. There are days I can pretend I don’t remember, days I almost  forget completely. Then a smell, a taste, an image, brings you up. I’ve started taking photos  again. I remember how many photos you would take on that stupid polaroid. I wonder if you still  have them. The ones of us, I mean. You used to display them on your walls. Are they packed in  some box? Did you throw them away?

I don’t want to say you’re all I think about; I have plenty to update you on. I don’t know  where to begin. I have stretch marks on my stomach now. I used to hate the ones on my legs; they made me feel like my skeleton was growing too fast for my skin. Now they’re a sign that I've started eating. Another thing, I stopped dying my hair. I was scared at first; letting the gray  grow in. Letting go of my youth but looking in the mirror I am still me. Maybe even more now. I’m still not

           balding; I bet you’re disappointed. Maybe in letter Seventeen that will change.

          I have flowers and plants embroidered all over my house, in the corners of sheets, on  the cuffs of my jeans, even my nice silk pillows didn’t escape the treatment. A girl I went to  college with once embroidered a flower onto my bag. I haven’t seen her in years, but she still  lives in my house through the flowers.  

          I don’t write anymore, not like I did back then. Work consumes me, maybe distracts is a better               word? Still, I find myself writing poems in the margins of documents. I used to think it was  

   defacing books, but I’ve started to see the beauty of dog earring and marking up my books. I

went to a used bookstore a few months back and found a copy of Frankenstein. Whoever  donated it had filled the book with highlighter and notes. It was like I was reading it with them. It  was the first time in a long time and I didn’t feel lonely. Maybe someone will feel the same way  about the books I read and someday donate.

          I have a son now. You might wonder why I didn’t start with this. I always consider telling  you. More than not, I leave it out. He scares me; he's brilliant. I don’t see myself in him, but then  he picks at the collars of his shirts when he's nervous just like me. He pauses mid-sentence when he can’t find the right word, refusing to use a place holder. I wonder what I'm passing  down to him, My stubbornness definitely.  

          I still can’t cook. I eat a lot of salads. I say I'm healthy, but in reality, I don't know how to  make much more. I’m set in a way, I’m too old to want to learn. I still prefer street food though.  It’s not as good here. I’m not sure what the point of this letter even is anymore.  

          I imagine us getting coffee and talking like old times. Do you still dye your hair blonde?  Do you still scrunch your nose when you’re trying not to laugh? Do you still steal oversized T shirts from your friends because it makes you feel closer to them?  

          Sometimes I also imagine us passing each other on the street and never knowing it. So  much has changed, maybe all we are now is strangers. I doubt I’ll ever know, maybe it’s better  to just exist as a memory. I’m not sure. I wish I could ask you. That would require me to send this letter. That would require me to accept that no matter how much of you is become a part of  me there are years of lost time. I don’t know, either way I want to say thank you, I miss you and  I’ll always love you.  

          Best, Claude