Dear T —

I feel like I haven’t written you a real letter in awhile.

I don’t know what I mean by real.

Everything I have written you lately has been real, achingly so — like the pain in my side whenever I have to edit something!

Maybe by real I mean long.

In the coffee shop (again) today. There’s a playground alongside it.

Almost everywhere I’ve lived has been near school bells or church bells, or both. Accidentally.

Hearing children playing in a schoolyard goes great with your morning coffee, anything, really.

It is the sound of nothing wrong, everything right, playing things out. The minor leagues of acting?

We should play/act everything out.

I was almost…a grade school teacher, high school English teacher, priest (not that close), counselor, photographer, chef…

It takes plenty of almosts and time.

They never leave you. Nothing is lost.

I’m almost exactly what I’ve dreamed of now — maybe I am already.

You shall be, too.

(People never use shall properly!)

I want to be one more thing; it’s the combination of many things. I want to be that most of all.

(^^ That’s real.)

Every day is one day fewer.

An ex’s best friend’s fiancé dumped her and said —Making you happy is making me miserable.

(lol)

Mistake number one: Never try to make anyone happy. Just love them, as they are.

Which reminds me, I had to think about your question: How much love is enough love?

The answer is, Who knows?

That’s why you have to love people a little too much, just to be sure.

— Your D

P.S. I still owe you a real letter!