Love Letter 1984 (3rd Grade)

Dear Camouflage,

It has been intense, looking, feeling features, alone in thoughts; this walk in you this teal blue furnace in me or pain so tender. I haven’t said it, it seems too gray, but mother asked about you. I trekked three fields if but to see you while pausing for sugarcane, peaches, and here is a watermelon. I became a shadow. I drew a silhouette. I think about you all the time.

            I fiddle a piccolo or hold a flute while you play the cello. You have talent, or rain, because your father is addicted. Your shape is amazing. Your smile is crucial. I always rival to when your favor.

            We kissed. It seemed surreal. A word I picked up from our teacher. It means bizarre, or unlikely, or psychology. You know my feelings, that mother has a psychiatrist, that father is a pimp, and grandmother is schizophrenic.

            You never laugh at me. The other kids deny what we know. I see their parents at our homes. We fight and tell secrets and laugh and feel good.

            I remember cotton-candy or red vines or cinnamon filled bagels. We live on the County. We have tickets for lunch. This hurts a lot, because being pretty doesn’t mean being rich. We study words, like pain or closure or forgiveness, because you love your mother. We play pretend, our parents are lawyers and doctors, or teachers or therapists. We love pickles. We put them in cayenne pepper. We chase the ice-cream truck. We love the cheap chili nachos.

            I know so little, but I have emotion, while I need you.

It was hard to see you yesterday. You and Phillip seemed to have a good time. Phillip is cocky. He lives in the good part of the ghetto. And he is in the fourth grade.

Are you two together? I saw him play in your hair. I’m smarter than him. He was held back. You looked. You smiled. We had a nice afternoon.

I am now a man, treading mudslides and reminiscing on innocence. The soiree is the same. The pain is modified. Mother and father and grandmother have passed, and I wrestle a deep feeling. I suppose I long for the beauty, this carefree nature, while I saw you a month ago looking quite disappointed. The wretched heart. The pure rain. While carrying your third daughter. The beauty has faded. It looks heavy. Plus, everyone has died and left you to swim to shore. But we spoke. And we laughed. While watched so closely it churned. I was with an old friend. He lived in your building.     Your child’s father is a member of the gang there. He seemed possessive, a bit angry, but this is a black man’s disguise. We rarely confess, this need for acceptance, or the unreal perception we carry. We have an issue with ‘The Man.’ We do not try hard enough. And those that make it, we label them as sell-outs. But I left with you smiling while we realized this deep struggle. You were always smarter. You would rake in those stars. So many stickers, to have sheer affliction, while it started at day one. I wish you well. I hear your heart. I kinetic a sensation.