Letter to Our Future Selves

for Sue

Two countries, one ocean,

five states—though we face

different shores, our voices

remain right next to each other, 

our breathing familiar, our words

a shared comfort. But we both know 

the limits of language. We see

the years stretched between us 

threatening to snap. 

Yet we remember, too: fruit salad

under stars, icicles hanging 

from the apple tree and footprints

in the snow, lopsided gingerbread houses

with their gummy bear inhabitants. 

We remember the simple moments.

We live for them. We press them 

between the pages of our journals

only we will ever read. We see

the invisible, the hurt, the lonely,

the angry. When fists demand

an entrance, we peer

through the peephole. We see

Silence standing outside, 

arms crossed. Let us open 

the door. Let us invite Silence 

to join us—stay for dessert, 

please. Let us ask Silence

the questions it longs to hear. 

Let us listen. Let us listen.

Let us remember what it means

to reach for the doorknob

and welcome ourselves inside.