Please, Knock Upon My Door

Dear Mrs. Peacock. I write to you everyday in my mind. Elegant and sincere love letters that I read aloud in a whisper. That I wonder if you hear. Stories created by you and written for you. Though I cannot see your face or smell you, you swell in me anticipation that purples and blues.


I pray for you every Sunday in Church. I leave a space in the pew and watch the door for you. Not that you will come, I only pray that you are happy and well, wherever you are and that you find your way through, as we all seek to do. I think of you with every beer I drink. Too many, it’s very true. When I am lonely. When I am happy. With every push-up or arm curl I do for you. Every time I brush my teeth, turn down the sheets, wake up to an empty pillow, or stare at a dark ceiling haunted by you.


I leave a seat for you at every meal. There is an empty place and plenty to eat for two spread across the table. When I have coffee in the cafe, I watch the door for you. I’ll stand when you come, if you ever do, and hold the door for you when you pass, even if you’re only passing through.


This house is for you, with room for you and your kid, or kids, if you have one or two, or kids we might have, if we decide to, or just us. I bought it hoping it would be some kind of honey, as though you were a fly. I hung a porch swing that swings in the wind and cries over the crickets, lonely as the night. I planted flowers for you that’ve yet to bloom in beds that are mulched like Indian burial mounds, sacred as the Sioux. In Spring, they’ll come up for you, yellow and purple. Magenta and orange. Rose-pink and blue.
There is jewelry on my dresser, bought in advance of you, space in the drawers, and an empty closet for your wardrobe. There is a light that doesn’t go out. That burns forever for you.


Romantics and romanticism is dead, I read. And people laugh and say you don’t exist, though I know that you do and the signs will be so compelling, neither of us could mistake them. Shakespeare wouldn’t make money these days, they theorize. These days a practical mind and sensibility go further than an open heart and love. Love is tyranny, they rant, for wistful old women and fools. This must be a miserable person to have written such cursed things. Burnt at her soul’s stake. The world is full of blackholes who believe in nothing. Those who believe in practicality and mutual funds and bonds as wedding gifts. To see someone you marry for their stock options and portfolio.


My gift for you is more reliable. It is this house, this bed, and that pillow. It is an open door, the light, the moon, the flowers, evenings of wine on the porch swing, late nights, morning coffee, faith and fidelity, adoration and admiration that will never cease, or die. Nothing that has any expiration or that relies upon whims. Nothing that could crash and bankrupt your soul.


This is not a lease, Mrs. Peacock. This is a happily-ever-after. A one in a million. This is every love story ever wrote in a glance, a word, a kiss. And so I wait here like a Martian, whether I am the last romantic on Earth is of no consequence to me because I know only to be me, maybe the only one who still believes in something more than what is disposable. Who doesn’t see people for their trade-in value. Or what fledgling thing that breathes, but then dies in careless arms, having ran its course sometime in middle-age when its practicality has lost its purpose.


They have pretended to be you. But they were not, I knew. Forgive me for accepting less, for thinking less could ever be more, equal to you. When they couldn’t have been you because only you are you. Forgive me for wanting you so much to attempt to breathe in them my passion for your ghost.


If you do not come, we both will endure this life in a state of melancholy. Maybe you pine like I do, in words, or songs, or art, or in some other languid way. Maybe you wait, too. Or maybe you seek as I sought and are somewhere apologizing to me for being wrong, for saying you do.


But assuredly, if not in this life, another, because fate cannot be denied, though it’s time is not ours. And this porch swing will shake and pule in the warm night wind without us. Without you. Should you find your way, do not hesitate. Please, knock upon my door. I painted it bright red for you. I am here and I am ready. I am always waiting for you.