A Letter in Response to a Sleeping Dog
 

It’s Sunday. I’ve spent the weekend in my bedroom drinking green tea to excess and watching movies I’ve had on my list for ages. On top of my tallest bookshelf burns a balsam candle I’ve been saving for the first chilly weekend. I was supposed to be more social these past few days, but sometimes plans change when my nerves can’t handle themselves. Instead of seeing a new friend, I’ve been hiding under a window almost as tall as the north facing wall it lives in. Brooklyn is no good for me, I’ve always known that, but here I am.

I’m propped up in bed with The Shins on shuffle reading a book set in Ballymaldoon, Connemara. Earlier this summer I wrote a feature for the litmag, a letter to the time we spent in Ireland, blaming it for the rest of my life. I’ll always rather be there. “So forget about it, girl / Even I don’t know why / I can’t just stay the course,” James Mercer sings almost on cue.

Your note was a welcome respite. When I reached out about Whitman earlier this month, I felt a fool. What was I doing? Surely forgetting about sleeping dogs. And your polite reply seemed to confirm for me you were a new you well outside the realm of this me and I was fine to feel answered and continue. But the old you or the forever part of the universe assigned to humans on earth had you grab an old notebook and be reminded of my voluptuous yawp. And a voluptuous yawp I certainly am, even when my nerves can’t handle themselves.

Law school, and I am more proud of you than ever before. Though I’ve always been proud. And awe’d. Tell me more.

Le grá go deo, 
B.