love letter

Querida Charleston,

My remaining time with you is being counted in days rather than weeks now, and I am becoming increasingly anxious. I have never been able to come out and say all of the the things I want to say, so hopefully this letter will be a passable alternative.

I just want to say thank you for all of the things you have given me while I have been here. Thank you my first house here, and the ability it gave me to live comfortably in an area that most would find less than desirable. I loved my walks to work from there, because even on the days when I was nearly suffocated by the oppressive heat and jasmine, I still got to pass by the house with the sky-blue porch ceiling and the purple hammock. Imagining what it would be like to live there always helped to distract and cool me down.

Thanks for the people that I've met in my time here. I don't know how you manage timing so effortlessly, but it seems that every person I have met here came into my life at the exact moment that I needed them. Or that they needed me. Thank you for my first real friend here, and for allowing me to witness him literally rise like a phoenix from the ashes of his former life--from the moment I met him he has inspired me try things I've never considered and pursue goals despite the risk of failure. He helped me achieve my first legit pull-up. I'll never forget it.

Thank you for my sister. For a long while, we were all the other had here, and I clung to her for dear life in that time before I found solid ground. She has known me longer than anyone and understands me for better or worse. The summary of us: we laugh and we sing.

Thank you for the one who almost destroyed me. Because of him I was able to experience depth of emotion both exhilarating and highly dangerous. After the fall I thought there was no way I could survive, couldn't picture myself ever feeling innocent and happy again. Significant parts of me died and rotted in that time, but during that endless in-between something else grew back in the hollow space, something much more glowing and resilient and compassionate than before. I am a better human because of it. I feel as if I could survive anything. And while I would never wish the experience on anyone, I would also never take it back.

Thank you for the ones who saved me after. For the one who sat with me while I cried and cried. For the one who was far off, yet with me every step of the way. They hated him for me when I didn't have the strength to, they were my warriors. For the one who gave me a new voice for my pent up emotion, a graceful and physical avenue to express my fury, and later my joy. She showed me what strength in the face of tremendous loss looks like, and unknowingly provided perspective when it was desperately needed

Thank you for the women in my life, my Mother, my Raven-Haired Sister, and all of my Amazons. They are precious to me in a way that I'm not sure a man could ever be, no matter how much I may grow to love him.

Thank you for the men in my life, my Father, my Brothers, all the ones who are good and strong and offer me protection free from motive. Sometimes in anger I forget them, wrongly lump them in with the others who have hurt me. Despite this, they love me anyway, and I am so grateful.

Thank you for the empty beach in the moonlight. For beers around a fire. For This American Life. For The O.C. Christmas trees and home-made salsa. The bridge. Stingrays. Music and dancing, both drunk and sober. The harbor and its scent. Three dollar burger night. The climbing wall. Twilight. Green tea lattes with soy milk. Earthfare. I could never repay you for it all. I'm leaving soon, but I love you more than ever. You are my beautiful mooring, my most lovely harbor.