Dear Ella,
I told you it would fly.
I told you the ticking hands wouldn’t tick for much longer, and I told you how the wind would carry the summer away. I’m sorry you didn’t manage to get a full breath. Summer’s sweet scent is not everlasting. Her perfume is a ruse, anyway.
If you’re anything like me, your summer was not to the standard of your idealistic dreamscape. It was probably just okay, with the occasional surprise, a handful of hangouts, and far too much actionless wishing. I hope I’m wrong, but I know I’m not.
I won’t barrage you with my hopes and dreams of what you’ve accomplished. That would only embarrass both of us. I apologize for my nihilistic outlook on the next year—it’s not your fault; it’s mine. I’m basing it on my experience—which is also yours, but let’s not overcomplicate this.
How was the fall?
Did the earth turn an auburn hue that I can currently only see in fantasies? Did the ambiance of fresh beginnings go stale, as I predicted? Were the pumpkin spice lattes brewed with burnt espresso reminiscent of the fire in the leaves?
You probably don’t remember anymore. Oh, who am I kidding? I bet you remember every crunch of every leaf, every step, every walk of every day.
But do you remember me? The girl whose garden is almost at its capacity.
But do you remember me?
The girl whose garden is almost at its capacity.
The girl who is petrified of what will happen when she locks the garden gates one final time.
The girl who is reaching out to you, shaking, searching for her green light on her unstable, rickety dock.
The girl who wants one person, just one, singular human, to definitively and with prophetic verity tell her that it will be alright. Because she is—no, I am—done with the what-ifs.
If one more person tells me it’s out of my control, I’m going to scream.
If one more certainty in my life falls off my pedestal and into the unknown, I’m going to lose it.
My garden is full of flowers, and all of them are dying.
I focused on aesthetics and buying ornate watering cans, forgetting I’d have to use them.
My stupid, idiotic garden is blooming with failed potential, and it’s all my fault.
Please don’t remember me like this.
Don’t remember the girl whose green thumb faded into a shade resembling mint, killing any aptitude with her pathetic despair.
Don’t remember this version of me who clutches the key to the garden like it’s the locksmith’s holy grail.
Don’t remember the way I dove right off the dilapidated dock in a futile attempt to touch the moon as it reflected on the water.
In my brimming flower field, I spot a new sprout: a dahlia. Did you plant it? Does each petal hold the answer to my mournful skepticism?
I don’t want you to remember my rageful grief over the future that I stole from myself.
Because you’re living it, and I hope it’s treating you well. Time is stagnant in every waking moment I’m currently living through, but I know I’ll be you in a short while.
Sincerely,
Ella
