Unsent Letter

I have a picture of you in my mind. There, you are still perfect, not the tired Caesar you’ve become. Your hair hasn’t grayed yet in this make believe photograph. Your face isn’t swollen. Your eyes are bright, and young.

This image is your apogee. It’s how I see you when you’re not there. So, when I saw you latest, I stood there shocked and speechless. The foundations of my belief collapsed. I never knew gods aged. Now that you’re not in front of me anymore, I try to rebuild these crumbled remains, piecing together my deep devotion for you, a nonpareil.

To me, you’re the man whose words everyone follows as law. You’re the man who makes everyone laugh. You paint everyone’s gray canvasses with careless strokes of your brush. I love you so incredibly much because you represent the very core of what I want to be. You’re the image of my future, as well as the source of my beginning. I love you as a friend loves a friend, as a man loves an idol, as a girl loves her first crush. I’m not sure you know this—that you’re the epitome of masculine beauty to me, that I love you, that no one will ever measure up to you. I never tell you this, and you never ask. Sometimes, I want to spill it all out to you, this river of love, so badly that I ache. But I’m not vocal when it comes to true love. You aren’t either, so don’t blame me. In fact, I probably got this fear from you.

Maybe it’s because of all these things that I forgive you for everything you’ve done. Sometimes, I wonder why I was even born if you never wanted me. Wait, no, don’t answer that. It’s because of Mom, isn’t it? Without her, the words I’m writing wouldn’t exist; neither would the trembling hand that holds this pen.

Even after I was born, in all my naked glory, you didn’t love me. It wasn’t until you saw I had Grandmother’s long fingers that you smiled. I was so close to becoming garbage, the second daughter that’s nothing but bulk. That misfortune was so closely avoided that I shudder, and thank God for my fingers, how they look like your mother’s.

I send you the pencil sketches I draw, the pictures I take, and try to translate the things I write. Once, I emailed these things to you. Then, I waited with bated breath for your verdict on these endeavors. Good, you wrote back to me. Period

Good. Four letters with a punctuation mark at the end. What is good? How long did it take you to come up with those four letters? Maybe one day, I’ll draw a picture with all your ugliness. I’ll write a story with all your sins. Maybe then, I’ll get a reaction.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not unappreciative. I know you haven’t gotten a paycheck in years and years. I know you put Yuan into my bank account, ten thousand at a time. I know that, to do this, you conserve everything you can. You wear worn socks and tatty shirts. You lead an austere life for me. But don’t you understand that I don’t want money? I want you. I tried to tell you this before, but your cell phone vibrated.

“I have to take this call. It’s important.”

I smiled, nodded, and bit back my words, letting opportunity shut its window.

All of this doesn’t fix all the mistakes you made. Scars will always be scars, and they don’t go away. Though, I do wonder sometimes if I don’t understand your pain. I wonder if it really just kills you to stay home. Perhaps there’s some secret, logical explanation why you’re not there for me everyday, but just for those bimonthly phone calls.

I don’t know why I bother to write this. These words will never get to you. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not next year. I’m just too cowardly to send it. But then maybe it’s because I already know the reply.

G-O-O-D

Period.