By Any Other Name

Dear Friend,

Enclosed is the rose.

My, how many hands it has passed. How many roads it has been on. I like to imagine its journey.

Perhaps it graced an evening side table, next to an old book and a glass of wine. Perhaps it lost a single petal while bouncing on the dashboard of some car driving over the mountains. Maybe it was the last whole rose left after its bouquet became floating petals in a bath meant for two. What if its thorn pricked a delivery woman, rebuking her for being needlessly jealous. It might have even been the inspiration for a cartoon movie, catching the sight of some important producer. Imagine if it was discarded onto the street, by the contempt of failed reconciliation, only to be picked up by a little boy with a big crush.

I am certain it will travel well. But the truth is, I have no idea how it will be received. Windows are such unreliable truth givers, and mirrors only tell what we already know.

God I’m terrible at this. Forgive me.

There is snow on the ground, finally. It took long enough. And yet, you know, it seems like only yesterday that it was the summer. But I certainly can’t remember the heat – the evenings here are frigid, and they unexpectedly creep into my apartment whenever I’m not cooking. My place is small, but the baseboard heaters are pretty lacklustre. I guess that everything always seems pretty close, even when it feels far away. I like my little apartment though. It houses my thoughts well enough.

I barely remember my life anymore: The life that I had while in high school or in college. The life that I had while going to lectures and going to the campus bar. The life that I had in elementary school, giving girls I liked gold painted rocks. The life I had playing the trombone or walking the streets of a foreign country. The life I had being a boyfriend, or of the oldest brother of a family that hadn’t grown up yet. It all feels so far away, but it only seems like yesterday.

I wonder if this makes sense. Some people never have a break from the life they lead. They are just one beautiful, linear progression. Mine, however, feels like it’s filled with starts and stops.

But I’m still writing to you. There was a time when we hadn’t started, but there has not been a time when we stopped. And I’ll tell you a secret – I’m not writing because of the season. The season is an excuse, but not the reason.

I had a thought, the other day. A daydream. It was my funeral. (I know that’s a taboo subject to bring up in a holiday letter, but what the hell. I’m pretty taboo myself.) People from my life, people important to me, took the podium one at a time and talked about me. I didn’t hear what any of them said, except the first line. Each person started by calling me a different thing. “He was a student.” “He was an artist.” “He was a businessman.” “He was a satire.” “He was an idealist.” “He was a brother.” “He was a friend.” “He was a lover.”

In my daydream, the list went on. As many people as there were willing to talk about me, there were labels. I then went back in time a week or so, and watched as one of those very important people came up with the idea to talk about different facets of my life, and to discover the people relevant to my life that could speak to them. They called my siblings, and they called my parents. They looked through my cell phone and my emails – they knew I wouldn’t mind. It was important to find the right people who could speak from experience and knowledge of me.

I suppose it’s pure vanity to believe that I could be so multi-faceted and distinct from everyone else. But I’ve met enough people of distinction to believe that I could be one of them. Maybe “he was an egotistical maniac” can be added to the list. Heh.

I guess what I’m trying to say here is that you’re one of those people. You could stand up there and talk about me, because you know me. You’re important, in the only way that importance really matters. And I know that, with all my usual communications, it might not sound like it. I’m awful with gifts, and I seem to remember random and terribly useless things. And the only time I can’t seem to say the right thing is when I really, REALLY want to.

But it’s true. I really hope you know it.

Life’s a game. Actually, it’s a number of little games. And you pick the games you want to play, you learn their rules, and then you play to win. You and me, we haven’t always played the same games, and sometimes we’ve played some pretty silly, strange looking games. But they’re fun. We haven’t always bet big, and we haven’t always played risky. But we’ve played with our hearts. And we’re winners. By gods, we’re winners.

I love playing with you. I love it when you get passionate, and when you get real. I love when we’re playing the same game, and get to combine our efforts. And I love playing my own game knowing that you’re off playing yours. And, you must know by now, I love playing those games when we’re pitted against each other. Because then, there’s no loser.

I wonder how you are, tonight. I could talk to you until the dawn breaks, but the truth is, I’d rather hear you speak. You don’t tell me enough, you know. I suppose that’s the joy of a letter, it gets all the talking out of the way and allows us to anticipate the reply. I hope you are happy, and enjoying daydreams of your own.

New games are underfoot, and it’s an exciting time for all of us. I hope you bet big this time, because I probably will. We’ve both got more to bet with, we know the rules a lot better, and there’s nothing more exciting than playing. If you ever need another player, let me know. I’m ready to kick ass.

Sincerely,
- Me

(The envelope contained nothing else)