These Letters Spell My Name

Dear Staple Gun that My Neighbor Was Carrying Around That One Time,

So, I have had reason to use our staple gun more than once as an adult, but I still have a rabid fear of children mixing with staple guns. That I owe to that kid’s parents – not to you, Staple Gun. You were blameless in that situation. I knew him, we were in school together and sometimes we played together, but he was always a little reckless. And it’s not even like he hurt anyone with you, he was just wandering around the neighborhood one day, an unsupervised six-year-old throwing staples into telephone poles, making all the neighbors jumpy and gossipy.

But actually, what I remember most vividly was the time that our next door neighbor’s toddler bit him on the cheek and he ran home crying (that’s not the part I’m talking about, I didn’t blame him for that) and was returned by his mother who was large and angry and yelled at my neighbor (she ran into her own house crying after that, again – relatable). But this is the part – the boy who was bit was standing there the whole time his mother was yelling about his trauma, tears still drying on his cheeks, watching us with blank eyes, all the while eating BOTH SIDES OF A DOUBLE POPSICLE. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. He couldn’t eat it fast enough because it was hot out and it was melting and that is too much popsicle for one little kid at one time. Everybody knows that nobody ever gets both sides at once – that’s why there are two sticks in them. You break them in half and you share.

So it is you, Staple Gun, and the popsicle thing that makes me wonder, what ever happened to that kid?

-e.

Dear Honda Accord,

I remember when you arrived in our life, so sleek and glamorous. Dad picked out your color even though you were going to be mom’s car, and she never loved the white, or did she not? I can’t remember. She has a white car now.

I remember when we would wait on the schoolyard at middle school and see my mom parking you across the street. My friends said my mom drove you like she was “gliding”.

I remember when you became our only car.

I remember learning to drive, grinding your gears and my mom losing her mind.

I remember when I got into that accident with you. And the other one.

I remember when I left for college. Somehow the visual memory of leaving home is stamped with the image of you in the driveway. How does a car become such a big part of a childhood?

-e.

Dear Getting Ready Mix Tape That Belonged to my Freshman Roommate,

I was thinking about you the other day and I just thought I’d drop a note to say ‘hey’. What’s been up with you? Are you still hanging around any of the swim team members’ houses? Maybe you’re in a box in some suburban two-car garage along with other mementos from college years.

I was thinking about you because the Pina Colada song came on the radio – and that is one of your songs, remember? I remember watching her getting ready to go out. And some nights, you factored in to that, if it was her night to have you. I was so jealous. Not of you, exactly, but of her community, her access to a team of instant friends, enough friends who liked enough cheesy fun to pass around a blank tape and add songs, one by one, to make a communal mix.

She was so pretty, and nice, and athletic, and popular and you were a symbol of all that she had. You and the catalog worth of J. Crew she came back with after winter break.

I can’t remember the other songs. Do you think you’ll ever get the chance to write some of them down for me? I’ll include my address below.

-e.

Dear Seagulls of Forde, Norway 3-ish Generations Ago,

You greedy little bastards – you ratted us out.

I had planned, with my sister (well, more accurately, I had planned, and then made my sister go along with me) to have a midnight picnic. No big deal. But I made a mistake: I started squirelling away food and hiding it in our suitcase in our room, waiting for the right time to have our picnic. And then the bananas got EXTRAVAGANTLY moldy. Like, they looked like they were wearing fluffy white wool sweaters that had started to grow into the suitcase lining. So I decided to abort the mission. And the only thing I could think of was to throw the bread onto the roof of the house – because our grandmother threw the bread crumbs out for the birds every single morning.

And then YOU.

I thought a freaking helicopter was landing on the roof of the house. You guys descended, en masse, and threw a rave with that bread. That bread was like the party drug AND the house music and you guys partied like angsty, hopped up teenagers.

Luckily, our grandmother is a badass and she leaned her old self out of that window and chased you all off with a broom. (Which, if I had been paying attention, is what she did every morning with the crumbs.) And – more luckily – she was kind. She helped us clean up the messy suitcases and didn’t even want an explanation. I said I’m sorry in broken Norwegian about a million times.

So, in summary, screw you guys and thank god for grandmothers.

-e.

Dear Teppe (Baby Blanket),

This is how the story goes: When I was three years old I walked into the kitchen and dropped you into the trash can. “I don’t need this anymore,” I told my mother. She rescued you, washed you, and put you away in my baby box, but I never asked for you or sucked my fingers (which I used to do) again.

When I picture that kitchen, I picture the breakfast bar with the kitchen on one side and the TV room on the other. There was a long, brown couch. I remember the Muppets on the TV. I remember sitting at the counter with my friend, towels wrapped around our heads to give us long, beautiful hair. I remember sitting there eating many meals. Mixing jello. Getting a dose of cough medicine. Drawing Strawberry Shortcake and Holly Hobby. I remember helping with a pecan pie for Father’s Day. I remember asking my mother to lift the phone down off the wall so I could call and see if my friend wanted to play.

I do not at all, not even a little bit, remember discarding you like so much used trash. I don’t remember a time when I was that decisive, or declarative, or independent. When I ever said no to a comfort.

I have left friends, though, I suppose. I have left them behind. Never without looking back, but I guess they wouldn’t have fit in a trash can.

I’m sorry,

-e.

Dear Aunt C’s Glass Paperweight Collection,

Each one of you was a world. A galaxy of color caught in clear glass. Laid out on a highly polished hallway table.

In my memory, each one of you represented one of her hopes. Did she say that once? Maybe not.

You were beautiful. All the things she collected were beautiful.

-e.