open letter to a friend

Dear Rilla.

If there was more than a handful of sense in the world things would stack up differently with you on top. Not that you're aiming for stratospheric heights from which to gaze down your nose at those below, but you know what I mean. You always do. If the whole world is indeed a stage, people would do well to stop talking and just hand you the microphone.

Do hydrageas bloom all summer? Even when we are old--with feeble knees, grandbabies clambering to be caught up to the safety of our laps-- these blue flowers will call you (the here and now version, wearing your new blue dress) to mind. Something about their cheerful, steady grace; the way they put showy flowers to shame, lasting and lasting in the glass vase settled in the pool of sunlight on the table.

It's strange and funny how one person comes to embody a single virtue or vice, a noun, a place or a even the specific shade of a certain color in the picture dictionary of another person's mind. I could be wrong, but it seems that amidst the whirl of life 'round here, you represent calm, safety, rest to so many people. Here. We can trust you. Let us hand your our secrets, let us sit in your blue, caring calm. Thank you for this and also: I'm sorry. How well I know: even rest itself needs rest-- so where do you find it?

Rilke holds out hope to us, I think. Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside. I am looking for this hillside. When I find it finally, with the old live oak tree at the top, I will send you a map (poorly drawn) and an invitation typed on my favorite old green typewriter on the best, creamiest paper I can find. Under the thick branches and the swish of leaves, we will sit and drink sweet tea and find rest from the lives we lead. Will you come?

in peace & affection,
k.