The southern gentlemen. (a letter to sarah)

Dearest Sarah,

Your letter was well received by me. I am not missing the plains much. Although it was utterly astounding to feel the wind on your face—to ride in freedom!—nothing that simple lasts. I’ve grown to love the towns, anyway, but haven’t quite made it to any big cities. I don’t think I’m ready for them, as of yet. It is frightening not knowing where your sleeping quarters will be for the next evening, but, really, it’s just a different version of—freedom!— Therefore, I can visit the great plains whenever I like, everyday from here to eternity.

No, eternity is too long for such a short word. I believe someday I may like to settle down, start a family. I wonder if I’ll ever get to visit one of those big cities in the first place. I doubt, however, that I should feel any less a man because of it. Any place is what you make it; the biggest of cities might feel empty as a cookie jar, the widest abyss as comforting as a first kiss.

Time is on our side, dear, don’t forget that. Love connects us, hate divides us, forgiveness opens our eyes to both. Give my regards to Bella, I do hope everything trod’s well with her. Most importantly I’d like to remind you that as far apart as life takes us, there is always a love in this part of the United States for one particular southern belle named Sarah Kathryn. I keep my remembrances of you close at hand, that I may ache for the wide-open plains of your heart.

Yes, I must admit, I do miss those sometimes.

Best wishes and warmest regards,

Jonathan Strong, esquire, on this day of April the thirteenth, in the year of our Lord two thousand and five.

Post-script: Keep safe, my love. Your eyes are too much for me to bear if ever lost.

A poem that Sarah did not write, addressed to yours truly.

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It’s the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.

Failing and Flying by Jack Gilbert