You still have my first letter, and so you probably remember it better than I do. But what’s more important, perhaps, is what isn’t written. Not in any of them. I was bereft before I met you. Convinced, at last, that I’d always be alone in my relationships. They were sound and fury. Years of sea in every direction. And I didn’t tell you then how skeptical I was of olive branches. Of doves. I didn’t tell you that parity couldn’t exist. That strength would never be reinforced. Only coveted. Only taken by coup or petulance.
I was in a courtyard when I saw him. The pirate with blue polished nails. He told me I’d met a true partner. He said it. That we’d be level. Equals. No one looking down or up.
What I want to tell you now is that he didn’t convince me. You did. A relationship I’d never have to settle for, or be restricted by. Do you see what you’ve done? What you’ve brought me? I believe. I believe in parity. In reinforced strengths. Not the ideal, but the habit. To wake every morning to you. To a life of teeming potential. Relentless joy. Years ago, a girl walked into a bookstore. How could I know she was a beacon.