Dear R,
Honestly, I was just looking for something to help me get off, that cold, lazy, randy morning.
With my computer having another epileptic attack, there was no way my need was going to be taken care of by the cyberworld. Instead, I rummaged through one of the nether drawers of my cabinet, hoping to find a lingering piece of indecent material.
But I found something better. I found you. Again.
The churches gave you away. You remember, that time when I was enamored with reproductions of images and prints of Spanish structures? You happily indulged my then fervent desires by showering me with those magnificent prints- Binondo church, the old customs house, the bridges spanning the Pasig.
I came across a pile of greeting cards with your signature script- big, bold strokes, passion tempered with gentleness. I love/d the way you wrote my name. I love/d the way you wrote your name. I love/d the way that you said that "in this world you can always rely on two things- God’s love and mine."
I read, re-read those cards. I've forgotten that I still had them. But seeing your cards transported me back to days more valuable than the edifices the images in front of them represent. I was hurtling back to the days of pasta pig-outs and rollercoaster romps, of clueless Cuban cinematic conundrums and frenetic family functions.
Four years’ worth of cobwebs is a lot of mess to be entangled in again.
After taking care of "business," I got ready for work. I wore the shirt you gave me, on my last birthday that we were together. It somehow made the cold more bearable.
Struggling to be stoic,
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