10 August 2001 ~ 3.51 PM, PST
A bus stop at 126th St. S.
Somewhere between the Skyway district of Seattle, and Renton, WA

Dear Jaymi ~

It took me several hours of grueling uphill travel, but I finally made it up here.

I woke up this morning with a plan. I needed to find your house. You know the feeling you get sometimes, that something's guiding you? The feeling that the timing is perfect? That there's someplace you need to be, something you need to do, and you've just got to do it, no matter how foolish it is? I woke up with that feeling. I was going to find your house. Didn't matter if you were home or not, though I was greatly hoping you were. But if not, there was something I had to accomplish anyway.

I broke down and bought a map in Rainier Beach. I was going to try SO hard while I was here, not to be a stupid tourist, not to be poking my nose into maps. I'm here for reasons. I'm here to SEE certain things; some of them, I've planned, and other, I think, could not possibly be planned. I thought I'd be more likely to run across some of the unplanned things if I was looking AROUND me instead of into a Rand McNally masterpiece. But I guess I needed that map. There's no way I would have gotten here otherwise.

I met a man on the way up here, a lost-looking gentleman who'd taken a walk into the hills and was a little disoriented. His name was Matthew, and we talked for maybe half an hour. Before we parted ways, he said a prayer for me. I didn't have the heart to tell him about you, your self-proclaimed Wiccan tendencies, the velvet skirt you were wearing when I first saw you, the vampire stuff, and the quasi-evil grin that so frequently adorned your eyes... I let him say his prayer, and I listened intently. After all, I've never heard of prayers doing any damage, really.

I made it all the way up the hill, playing Tori Amos' "Little Earthquakes" on repeat on my discman.

My friends are always accusing me of living in the past. The ones who know me best, that is. I'm frequently caught reminiscing about you, about Java Kids, about hoards of people I've loved and lost. I've been told hundreds of times, "get over it." I'm told, "let things go." I'm told to allow for evolution. I'm told to move on. I'm told that if I don't move on, I'll never be happy, I'll never be on the lookout for new experiences. To some extent, I know it's valid advice, but some things, I've never been able leave behind.

The last time I saw you, you were typing away at a computer, half-ignoring me. I'd had enough wine that night to kill somebody twice my size, and I can't even recall what I said to you. I remember a lot of background noise, a lot of dishes clanging, some music playing on the stereo... I remember you were wearing a cute hat... I remember hugging you, maybe spouting off some nonsense about Madonna, or dead people, or Meggin's K-Y Jelly-and-New-York-Times sculpture. And I don't remember anything else. That was THE last time I saw you. How am I supposed to consider that to be the END? Such a vague, undramatic ending to such an intense friendship... You were gone the next morning, and I was clutching my head and listening forlornly to Portishead CDs, unaware that you'd literally disappeared into the night. No goodbye, no announcement that that was it. Just a quiet departure.

THIS was supposed to be the end? We became friends over a June bonfire. We sang love songs together. We walked through dark streets at three in the morning for a cup of coffee at Paul's Diner. You told me stories that scared the shit out of me for weeks on end. You held my hand through my first broken heart. We broke into Sarah's house together. I kissed you without ever having to touch you. We swam naked in the reservoir. You gave me little bits of silver-colored rocks you'd found in a parking lot and told me they were for luck. You made promises to me that you'd always love me, that you'd always do whatever you could for me. I loved you, dammit, and I never cared what anybody said about that. To this day, I won't listen to a negative word anybody says about you, no matter how true it is. I loved you, regardless of the lies you told people, and the money you owe people, and the whispered rumors about your mental state. I never accepted that you, and everything, just ceased to exist, ceased to have any significance, the morning I awoke, slightly hung-over, to find you gone. That WASN'T the end. I will NEVER accept that that was the end.

I came up here today to prove that things don't just cease to exist. I came here to prove that when people go, they end up somewhere. I came here because of the Susquehanna River; because I've never really known where it goes, and I assume it goes someplace, but I've never been able to silence the weak voice of doubt that insists it just simply falls off the edge of the world and bursts into particles. I came here to find out what happens to things that are no longer present; to pinpoint the realm into which people go when they've allegedly ended. I came here to let go a little. I came here to know that, if I let go of you, if I let you end, you still are.

They say Binghamton captures people, that there's a Curse: you get stuck there, you always go back. I used to believe that, but I'm not so sure anymore. So many people have made it out. A few of them -- many of my favorites -- have not returned. There are rumored sightings: our meager way of proving to ourselves, as those who DO feel trapped here, that we're not the only ones unfortunate enough to have no alternative outside our town, no feasible way to start anew in another location. And a few of us DO get stuck, resign ourselves, reluctantly settle in for a long, overcast nap. We get houses, we get families, we pretend we're in love, we pretend we give a shit, we smile at the neighbors we see every damned day, because it's a choice between smiling or dying. I wanted to believe there ARE alternatives. I wanted to hold out hope for another alternative for myself. I wanted to be a witness to another human being who's overcome the Curse.

I found your house today with relative ease. I found a hiccup of joy in my throat when I saw your street. I very nearly screamed when I realized that the house directly in front of me was yours. Even with the stupid map, I almost didn't believe I'd ever find it. Road after road, turn after turn, and that ENDLESS hill -- just seemed like some demonic attempt at destroying my certainty about this being the Right Time...

A middle-aged shirtless man opened the door when I rang the bell. He didn't seem inclined to talk, just advised me to bang on your window, but not to be surprised if you didn't answer. He said, "those kids sleep like the dead." He said, "I don't even know if they're here now, because nobody made the coffee this morning." He said, "Sometimes they just take off and I don't see them for a day or two."

It was all I needed to hear; those small tidbits that so accurately described you, what I remember of you... Your coffee habit, your disappearing acts... And of course, the "sleeping like the dead," your nocturnal instinct... That was what I came here for. For those tiny, insignificant words that proved to me that there IS life after Binghamton. More importantly, that you didn't fall off the edge of the world and become nothing more than memories and particles...

I can let go now, I think. Not stop caring, not stop thinking of you as a friend... But I can stop obsessively reminiscing; I no longer need to take responsibility for keeping you alive. You ARE alive, and evidently, your essence hasn't changed much.

As Jason would say, "nothing ever really does end." Now -- NOW -- I believe him. Now, I know nothing ends, and I can let things evolve, without neurosis, without the terror of some mysterious void that swallows and annihilates friends during the night while I might be sleeping off six glasses of wine. I just needed to be sure of you.

I left a bag of Java Joe's coffee with your housemate, Eric. I hope it gets to you. A little bit of proof for you, that the place you came from has not ceased to exist, that your history is not gone. I know some of it hasn't been pleasant for you. But Java Joe's coffee, I know, will be a reminder of good things. I hope you recognize it as an expression of affection instead of a nagging tug from your past. I admire your nomadic spirit; I do not try to suppress it. This was merely a token to let you know that I haven't ended either.

I'm sitting here at this bus stop now, and I feel more secure than I have in a very long time, despite the fact that I don't know where this bus is going to take me. A sort of revelatory thunderhead has opened up and dumped a downpour of understanding on me. I still wish I could have seen you, talked to you, hugged you, held your hand, looked into your eyes and asked, "so... what've you been up to?" I still have the feeling that you and I have things to accomplish together; that you'll remain significant to my life for a long time to come, despite whatever distance might lie between us. Maybe I'll get the opportunity to see you before I leave the West Coast. Maybe not. I will see you again, someday, somewhere. I have no doubt. I am at peace right now, really. And if I wish very much that you would have been home today, it's maybe only because I've forgotten exactly what color your eyes are...

Love Always...
~Carolyn*