Dear Will:
As I sat in my comfy bathtub in the Hotel des Indes last night, I remembered our trip to France when I spent the end of each evening relaxing in a hot tub, reading The River Why, a book about fishing in Oregon.
At the beginning of this trip on Monday, I experienced a big grief day, crying on the British Airways flight, discomfiting the stewardi.
I am having a good time and yet I am not experiencing great joy or happiness because my big hotel bed is empty of your warmth.
It’s true that if you were here I would be worrying about you. It was also on our trip to France in 1997 that I found out you had been hiding a serious illness from me for many years. And when we were walking down the street, I would be looking behind me constantly because you preferred to stay an annoying 3 or 4 steps back from my sidewalk leadership.
And I’m free now to make mistakes without comment and to go where I want without checking with anyone. So I didn’t go to art galleries or museums yesterday (fuck the girl with the glass earring) and instead took the tram to the beach to step in the North Sea.
“Freedom is just another word for, nothing left to lose.”
Always yours,
Kake
No comments:
Post a Comment