December 15th, 1997

Dear B,

I did something stupid a couple of weeks ago.  I found the phonebook for the city that you’re living in and I looked you up.  I found your number and I dialed.  I dialed nine of the ten numbers and then I came to my senses.  I hung up the phone and I took the phonebook and I tore out the pages and I burned it.  The problem is that I’ve always been really good with numbers.  I can’t forget it.  As much as I’ve tried.  I had to write my social security number the other day and found myself writing your phone number instead.  Sad I know, but not entirely surprising considering my present state of mind. 

It got worse the other day, because I came across your email address in my address book, and I typed up an email to you.  I didn’t send it.  I saved it in drafts where it sits, just taunting me. It wasn’t just writing the email that was the stupid thing, it was the contents of the email.  Just four words. “I miss you,” and my name.  I stared at it for about ten minutes on the screen, looking at it looking at me, just a white sheet with those thirteen letters; my name and “I miss you.”  Ironic that it’s thirteen letters long, since you’ve never been anything but bad luck for me. 

Then I just saved it.  I know I should delete it, and that I should delete your email.  But I don’t know.  I can’t. As much as you hurt me, I’m having a hard time severing the ties to you.  It took all the strength I could muster to delete you from my phone contacts.  It was the right decision, but for safety reasons it may not have been the best option, because as you know you called me the other day.  I didn’t recognize the number but I answered anyway, intending to tell the telemarketer to remove me from whatever list I’d ended up on. Then this familiar voice answered and I couldn’t place it at first.  It wasn’t until you asked if I knew where some of your things were, that I realized it was you. I found myself shocked and amazed and delighted and infuriated and sickened.  Shocked because you called me, amazed because you called me, angry because all I got was a “how are ya, where are my things,” and sickened because I was delighted.  I think it was the first time that you called me.  If I remember correctly I’m pretty sure I did all of the calling in our relationship.

I know where those things are.  I told you I didn’t. The truth is they’re sitting on a shelf where I stare at them every day and think “I should get rid of those.  It’s not good to have them around.”  Another tie that would need to be severed and I just can’t bring myself to do it.

So I stay here, staring at the things that sit on my shelf, with the email that sits in my drafts open, thinking about the phone number that still sits in my brain. I want to let them all go, but if I do, I won’t have anything of you left. I never had much of you at all, but the illusion is nice.

Someday maybe I’ll have the strength to let go. Until then I’ll let you live in my mind.

K