Dear Camilla,

4: Oliver

Dear Camilla,

My stoic reaction to your absence was similar to the one elicited in your initial departure. It felt like winning the lottery just to learn that you're terminally ill the next day with a fast-approaching death sentence. I traveled up from Tennessee to see you, saved every cent I earned since the day you left, spent months debating over which clothes to bring, brainstorming what stories I could tell you about the years after you left that would make you regret leaving— all to have it culminate to nothing. But, I kept that inside.

I did feel embarrassed, truly. And insignificant. And obnoxious. And like the only explanation for you not coming to see me was that I was fundamentally ugly inside somewhere, broken everywhere. This is why I was so surprised and flattered by Oliver's introduction. It was such a beautiful scene that I hesitate even to write about it because I fear that I will ruin it with weak words. There I was, examining the grass with a studious concentration when suddenly the hair on the back of my neck rose. I could tell I was being watched. I looked up and I was right. He was standing behind me.

"The grass should be greener, right?" He remarked. I was too stunned to respond.

There was an awkward, but beautiful pause, like a spotted fawn learning how to walk in thick ferns.

"You're not from around here, are you?"

I recovered my bearings.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Not yet. My name is Oliver. It's wonderful to have made your acquaintance. Let me guess, you're from Georgia? No. Louisiana. I've been meaning to explore the southern states on my jaunt around America and you have a bit of an accent on you."

"Tennessee, actually. But, close."

Ghostly church bells sounded in the distance. The yellow light fell below the trees creating a misty, liminal atmosphere. A light breeze brushed my caramel hair across my face and scattered the leaves in our proximity. I was still laying, looking up at him.

"Well, a beautiful girl from Tennessee, what'd you say to explore the city together?"

I had not seen much of the city yet, and I was intrigued by this mystery and British accent. Especially coming from the small town we do, every new person you meet is refreshing and significant, don't you think? I'm sure that's why you love it here. And anyway, Oliver had an unassuming charm to him that was entirely enticing. He seemed naturally grounded and carefree, childish even, which was invigorating in contrast to my dejected mood.

Before I could respond with a yes or no, he stuck his hand down to help me up, a sweet gesture.

When I took his hand in mine I felt lifted, not only physically by his strong arms, but emotionally too. My hope for a worthwhile future was restored. I felt like the light that surrounded us, like a dove taking flight, like a spring daisy dripping with morning dew.

I suppose all my stories start in moments of extreme emotion, the happy highs and the depressed lows. It's almost as if time doesn't exist— I don't exist— anywhere else. Always chasing, always running, always desperately searching for shards of significance, colored glass experiences, fragments of this enigmatic life material to piece together a magnificent mosaic picture of myself, to claim me in my church of being. How can I be the most interesting part of your life, Camilla? The most beautiful painting in your museum, the shiniest, cleanest machine?

I wonder if my affliction for extremes is what compelled me to him— what could have, indeed, been my fatal fault. Was he the sun and I, Icarus? Attracted like a moth to a flame, by no real merit of his own, merely my innate nature, straining to fill a perpetually half-empty glass in your absence. There's a Pythagoras quote I read, recently, seeing as I have plenty of time now, here, that speaks to the unfolding of my pawnship in his chess game: "a person who is captured by his passions cannot be free." Any guilt of mine, I promise, can be written off with a hard deterministic philosophical outlook. Maybe I knew, deep down, but didn't dare to look. But, what is more important than the fallibility of my character, though, are the effects that the entirety of New York is reeling with to this day.

With undying love,

Maxine.