"When will you learn that there isn't a word for everything?"
-Nicole Krauss, The History of Love.
Meadowlark.
I miss you. Today I miss you most of ever.
I wish I was in your house. We would have woken up this morning and a trail of paper hearts would have been from your room into the kitchen. And you would have been off on a hunt, while I made vegan waffles and brewed coffee and lavender early grey tea. I would have played for you my ukulele. Probably "The Dog Days are Over" by Florence and the Machine, because that's the only happy song I know. I wish I was with you.
I miss you La.
John Keats always wanted a brighter word than bright. I want a lonelier word than lonely. But there isn't one. Because "Loneliness: there is no organ that can take it all." It's true. When you miss someone, every part of you aches.
Especially when you miss them on the day they were born.
But I am also joyful today.
Twenty-two is a big number.
When I was sixteen, I wanted to be twenty-two. Or twenty-four. Those are the good ages I told myself then. And maybe they are. But they're just numbers. We can put numbers on a lot of things.
How many people you've blessed.
How many candles go on a cake.
How hot the kiln is to fire a certain clay.
The temperature of lightning when it hits the sand and creates glass.
How many hours till you see someone again.
How many days since they left.
How many chickens you own.
How many petals on a rose.
The number of people in an orchestra.
How many days since you last saw you're older sister.
How many birthdays you've missed.
We number it all. But you know what?
You cannot number my love for you.
You cannot number my missing you.
There are no numbers.
No words.
Because remember, there isn't a word for everything.
And so, due to the limitations of the English language, I will have to make use of my tiny vocabulary. And even more ironically, I will steal the words from another woman.
"Part of me is made of glass, and also, I love you."
Your Flower.
-Nicole Krauss, The History of Love.
Meadowlark.
I miss you. Today I miss you most of ever.
I wish I was in your house. We would have woken up this morning and a trail of paper hearts would have been from your room into the kitchen. And you would have been off on a hunt, while I made vegan waffles and brewed coffee and lavender early grey tea. I would have played for you my ukulele. Probably "The Dog Days are Over" by Florence and the Machine, because that's the only happy song I know. I wish I was with you.
I miss you La.
John Keats always wanted a brighter word than bright. I want a lonelier word than lonely. But there isn't one. Because "Loneliness: there is no organ that can take it all." It's true. When you miss someone, every part of you aches.
Especially when you miss them on the day they were born.
But I am also joyful today.
Twenty-two is a big number.
When I was sixteen, I wanted to be twenty-two. Or twenty-four. Those are the good ages I told myself then. And maybe they are. But they're just numbers. We can put numbers on a lot of things.
How many people you've blessed.
How many candles go on a cake.
How hot the kiln is to fire a certain clay.
The temperature of lightning when it hits the sand and creates glass.
How many hours till you see someone again.
How many days since they left.
How many chickens you own.
How many petals on a rose.
The number of people in an orchestra.
How many days since you last saw you're older sister.
How many birthdays you've missed.
We number it all. But you know what?
You cannot number my love for you.
You cannot number my missing you.
There are no numbers.
No words.
Because remember, there isn't a word for everything.
And so, due to the limitations of the English language, I will have to make use of my tiny vocabulary. And even more ironically, I will steal the words from another woman.
"Part of me is made of glass, and also, I love you."
Your Flower.
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