A Memoir/ Series of Personal Essays in progress.
Before you read another word I need to warn you that I Am A Storyteller. We’ll get back to that, I promise. Probably on the last page. That’s my way. If you’ve read any of my fictional works, you already know that. I like to leave out the first two pages and then hand them to you at the end. Perhaps I’ll get around to explaining why I do that before this project is done. Project… Assignment.
I must also warn you that I dearly love every single colorful character who plays a role in the novel called, My Life. I do not share these Love letters with an intention that you feel anything less than absolute adoration for the people who have shaped and molded me into the person I am today. If you do, I am afraid you have missed the point entirely. We’ll get back to that too, I promise. Again probably on the last page. My way, after all. My book. My letters. Sorry.
Several of the names of the characters in this collection of letters have been slightly modified for their protection. I will tell you when I do that by saying things like… Let’s call her Karen. Anyway, the story remains the same even if the names are changed
So here goes. Welcome to My Life. My story. My letters to my Beloved, the Mirror of my soul.
As you turn the next page, Isla would say to you, ”My Fault” and then stare into the space of yours, so deep and wide. Devyn would probably call you Livie and forgive you for the most terrible thing you have ever done. Elise would most certainly start singing a Lionel Richey song. Billy, my sweet, sweet Billy, would just smile at you and then look down at those boots of his. And Nanny Rose would offer up her latest and lamest joke.
And me, what would I do?
I would probably take your hand and offer you a seat next to me. After all, I am a Story Teller, like Forest Gump on that bench of his. Feel free to come and go. Get on and off the bus. Bring a friend. Laugh, cry, cheer, dance, and scream. The only thing that I will not tolerate is you pretending for a second that you are less than I already know you are. You, the ocean in one drop. You, magnificence in human form. You, my friend. You, myself.
Shall we dance while we read this? I hear a tune playing. You know the one. You have heard it before. In fact, I think you wrote it just for the occasion.
Trailer Park Girls Don’t Play Croquet:
Love Letters from a Story Teller
A Nicky Hjort
For Maya Angelou,
Who gave me the courage to listen to her song
You, my Beloved
Who listened quietly while I learned the lyrics…finally.
Love Letter One: I am a fake.
I remember that day like it was yesterday. Twelve years ago, almost exactly.
It was a glorious day. An Indian summer September afternoon in Carmel Valley. The kind of California gorgeous that I long to fill every afternoon from March to October. Only I didn’t know it at the time because it was one of my first trips to the West Coast. You had been there. You would have known. You knew about wine country.
Now I know better, too. Now I pay the highest state taxes in the US just hoping for another year filled with more of those types of days. The day I realized I was a fake.
My son Jake would say, “Faker Schmaker.”
The sun dripped like nectar off a honeysuckle onto the curious tip of my tongue as I glanced about. Just a hint of moisture blessed the air. A cool breeze wafted in every time I even thought about feeling hot. The trees oozed life, luxury, and symmetrically surrounded the perfectly manicured lawn. The green, a color so deep, that a human word couldn’t possibly be worthy to describe it. Could only fall short. Could only fail it. You, of all people, would have loved the color of it.