There is a very specific dance I think most of us miss out on. That is the art of delayed gratification–or, in this specific case, letter writing and snail mail.
Yesterday, a wonderful present arrived for me. I wasn’t expecting it, and that certainly added to the initial gasp-love-beauty-dizzy-shock sensation. It’s a sensation I usually associate with making intense eye-contact with a brave, vivid personality. In the haze of it all, my mind struggled to catch up and rearrange the circumstances.
An epiphany: I had received my letter from Remi.
Don’t ask me why, but I thought it’d be a swell idea to contribute 1,500 poems for this Saturday’s event gift bags. That’s right. 1,500 tiny, original poems. Via typewriter.
This man criticized my new friend for not paying me with money for a poem. I asked, “who are you to judge another person’s investment?” He repeated that line over and over again, as if singing a song. “Who are you?” he demanded in a deep melodic voice, emphasis changing each time. “Who are you?” He scared my friend away, then unkindly demanded I create a poem about my question.