From over there

I'd always been fascinated with down under there, the farthest place from me. Fascinated by the people, their twangy tongue and sun-kissed locks. As a child I'd expected they'd be the most different from me, how could they even live in this world? I'd selected one from there, and a few weeks later I received an envelope that I'd previously imagined mail from there would look like, security patterned blue seeping through on the inside with red checks along the outer-edges. A strange footed animal on the stamp, the envelope fluffed outward with the items inside. The words were trivial, but not to me, then. She listed her hobbies, asked me about mine. We shared a love for animals and I was jealous of her living on a farm. Of course she did. She was on the other side of the world. Years later I'd get close to there, but I'd stop at the Indian Ocean, only looking over towards the islands where I'd heard a familiar movie was filmed. Hot white sand, hot blue water. Boats with handmade sails - that too was how I'd pictured it.

We met some from there, as I'd imagined we would (somehow); spent our last night drinking the resort dry next to a fire we built beside our feet. We traded accents (or attempted to), and i went to sleep that night with the cat I met.

We'd write a few times a year sending photos before the phenomenon of inter-connected addresses and screens and instant mail were the norm. She wore a green fleece next to a white horse. The landscape in the background mimicked what I saw in my mind, thought one day we'd ride together over the sparse brown flicked with green, looking out for snakes, and bird-eating spiders.

I was ten when we first spoke, and there were others, Finland, Singapore, some without return addresses. Still, her. Even when the letters stopped, still, her.

We almost saw each others faces in real-time, ten years ago. He was supposed to go for the sport, I was supposed to join him as his sister. It wasn't his time, and in turn, it wasn't mine either. (He eventually took me much later, close, to the hot, white sand and the hot blue water, stopping at the Indian Ocean).

Once that strange phenomenal world settled among us all - up here and down there the same, we spoke sporadically, once confiding in lost relationships of the same span. I don't think it mattered to either of us but we both played the part - we seemed to be in the same spot, from all the way over there.

I've always been privy to strange friendships, despite the flutters of self doubt and fear of the eyes. I go through with what's asked, though, at least the once. I'm never disappointed. I hope they aren't, either.

Recently I found out she was here, in the city, where I live. She'd been over here once or twice, but never here. She wrote to me on my phone. I stared at it for a long time. I felt her proximity. I thought about the green fleece and the white horse. I pictured her wearing it but I knew she wouldn't. I saw her smile, her ten year old hair and the dirt on her face.

I asked him to come with me. I asked him too. He didn't know where we were going, but he didn't care. That's what I like about him. Nearby where they stayed, we spoke to one of the many in this place who always ask to get but never offer to give. One of the Assumed Entitled's. We obliged, somewhat apprehensively. We should have known, with his shirt reading a big black FUCK OFF. I don't know about the others but it was kind of a rush. Almost immediately, I spotted her. I knew it was her by the way she stood, even. I'd never seen her flesh or her hair or that smile except in that photo but there she was. I ran over and embraced her. I think I even skipped. I hugged her's. We introduced. The Assumed Entitled was a great ice-breaker. We walked. Later, he told me that the clutch set up the ease for the rest of the night. It made me feel in control.

I mentioned to her the photo, she referred to the green fleece and white horse. She mentioned her name. She reminded me of my first letter and the phonetic spelling of my last name. She still asked. We drank and talked over skipped silences and cased guitars. She talked of her fear of moths and how she didn't mind the spiders --despite their ability to kill. A hundred times the size of any one found here, I stared and asked. She told me about their webs mimicking unraveled steel wool. She smiled when she talked. I thought of how often I'd pictured her voice. Soaked in surreal as her soft sound bounced against my right ear. She was so gentle, and I trusted her. She felt like part of me, I wonder if she considered me part of her. I'd forgotten all we talked about throughout the years. It seemed like she knew my family. She talked of roadkill, and her love of the unknown or unseen (squirrels). We reminisced of the time we saw one twitching under a tire. She asked the best spot to seek out raccoons. I told her to look behind her.

I didn't bring the keyboard --I didn't care. She pushed all night, though. The other. I was somewhat vexed and a little hurt - after all, this was a Once. I don't think I told her that though, so how could I. After all, I never do. I just tip-toe, I've always tip-toed. Starry eyed and light on feet, I am commended a lot for this but also condemned. I don't blame them. She could wait, we had hours, after all. And she did, happily.

I met her other and he was everything I'd hoped for. They seemed like old friends. He shared the same name as an old pet. I wanted to stay there all night. Our time together axed their Tourist plans, but, they didn't seem to mind. We parted as we part most hands - with plans to have another, I thought they might pan out, but I wasn't entirely shocked when they didn't. We took turns cradling this time, even her other, even my others. They made their way back, we met the ones who were waiting.