Dear__________!

Dear______,

I don't know who you are, what to say to you, if you'll get this or care to, or even your name, or whether or not you have one, of if you speak english, or if I do, of if you speak, or...

I don't know much--hopefully you know that.

But there is a lot of talk about you down here, I want you to know--alot.

I don't know if you care, or if you understand what everyone doesn't understand, but it gets awful crazy sometimes--awful.

I know you probably don't need this, and you don't need to write back. Do you write?

But there is talk of you. There is talk that you rest beyond the blackest and deepest of night skies, there is talk that you shout beyond the quietest of silent whispers, there is talk that you love in the face of hate, there is talk that you are attached in some way to the detached, there is talk that you are the linear in the diagonal, the wide in the narrow.

But there is also something else: in that "you", in that very creation, in that very expression, something that I'll never understand or be able to appreciate.

In those three tiny letters on a tiny page written by tiny hands on a tiny day in a tiny year in a tiny era in a tiny history in a tiny world in a tiny time in a tiny time there is something infinite, something so far removed from that expression that it is a total waste of words to even try to capture anything in that "you".

But, , if you can, could "you" just know there is talk of "you" here, and whatever that means, I'm not sure, but if "you" get this, tell my mother that I'll miss her when she gets there.

She never understood me, nor I her, and in that "her" there is something so far removed from the depths and ability of me, that she could only rest in a place beyond a sky of endlessness cloaking the infinity of "you".

In that "her" there is someone so loving and close to that infinity here in time that I, in my ways, could never even understand.

So I know "you" will be better at this than me. Tell "her" so for me.

Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I love her. That the depths of "her" was beyond me, and that I am glad she is home, where she can be appreciated, and where she can rest, where she can be safe, free from ignorance and separation.

There is talk of "you" down here. And soon, there will be talk of "her" up there.

But no words will ever fill the space those six letters comprise, for the sublimity of infinity in human hands and tongues is to try to catch a shadow and hold it captive in a jar.

What I just said means nothing. Words mean nothing. But there is meaning. I know it was in "her" and I trust it is in "you".

There is talk of "you" down here.

And there is talk of "her", but no one knows for sure about "her".

And that is no tragedy. That is only truth. That tragedy is that we think we can know.

There is talk of "you" here.

I know nothing else. But I love "her". Tiny love, but love, a shadow in a jar.


Thank "you".