August 3, 1990
Dearest Emily,
How are you? I miss you. I don’t want to bother you, and I’m
sorry if I ever did, but, when you first got married, you said you’d write me
everyday, since I don’t exactly know how to use those imails, or emails, or
whatever you call them. I’m sorry your pap is an old-timer, sweetie. We haven’t
heard from you, you’re mother and I. I know it’s only been a couple of days,
but I can’t help but worry.
Oh, and how’s Ethan? I’d known he’d make a remarkable husband;
I’d always known he’d be perfect for you. I hope he’s giving you all the love
you deserve.
And if you’re wondering, we, your mother and I. We still
make Lasagna every Tuesday.
Remember? When you were six; the moment you wake up, you run
out your room, with hair un-brushed and clothes unchanged, yelling
‘Lasagnaday!’ even though we don’t make lasagna at eight in the morning, you
still spent the entire day guessing how it would taste this time. Remember how,
even when it’s always the same, we always had our remark: ‘Too salty.’ ‘Too
much sauce.’ ‘Too much white stuff.’ And your mom would go crazy.
Tuesday is my favorite day.
I love you, darling. Please, write back to me. I miss you. If
you’re too busy to write back, I’ll always be by the phone. At least I know how to use that, right?
I’ll check the mailbox everyday.
Love,
Mitchell, your lasgnaday partner.
September 7, 1990
Dear Emily,
I still haven’t heard from you. Have you moved? Am I using
the wrong address? Did I upset you? And how are you, again?
I miss you more, and
more everyday. I know you’ve grown up now, but I can’t help but miss carrying
you on my shoulders when you were little, and you’d spread your arms, shoot
your head to the sky, and challenge all the birds, as if you were already
victorious. I miss playing King and Princess with you. I still have the getup.
Remember when we used to build a castle out of the sofa, and end up sleeping in
it. Remember what your mom would say? ‘You’re ruining the couch, it’s silk!’
But she didn’t understand our very important tea party, did she?
Anyway, where have you been? Have you travelled?
Oh, and remember when you were so upset we didn’t throw you
a party when you turned sixteen, and then surprised you with tickets to Rome,
for us, and all your friends? I still remember the look on your face. You were
crying in your bedroom, with all that black stuff you so, religiously apply
everyday, running down your face. As if it finally caught freedom. I must say,
sweetie, you looked like a zombie.
But that tormented zombie transformed into a less haunting
version of itself once we gave you the tickets.
But I do admit, you make a beautiful zombie.
You don’t need to write me back, you can send me an empty
page, and I’ll be just as happy. I want to make sure your okay. I still miss my
little girl.
I’ll always wait.
Love,
Mitchell, your loving king.
September 8, 1991
Emily,
It’s been a year, and I’m still writing, still waiting by
the phone, and still checking our
mailbox. I’m even still having lasagnaday. I stopped knowing why though.
I waited everyday. Everyday, since the day I sent my first
letter.
I sleep three hours everyday, I’ve lost my appetite, and I
haven’t seen your mother in a while. I don’t blame her, though. Once she told
me the news, I turned into a monster. We spent everyday arguing over things I
forget in the morning, and I could tell your mother was getting sick of me. It
all started when she first told me. It was like a part of my flesh was ripped
apart and thrown away. I’m sorry, Emily.
You always meant the world to me, always will. I would turn
sand into pearls for your happiness, I would kill a hundred bulls, and I would
flip this entire city upside down, and heck, I’d learn how to use imails. Just
to see you smile.
But I failed this time. I failed, miserably. And I don’t really
know why I’m writing this, now that you can’t read it anymore.
I wish I was in that
in car, on August the third, nineteen ninety. I wish I sent that stupid letter
earlier. I wish it was me. I wish I could protect you.
I’m sorry I let you slip away. The castle, lasagnaday, and
Rome will never be the same without you.
Love,
Mitchell, the man who lost his princess, and his queen.
