I’m writing you now just to be cruel. It’s been years since I’ve seen you, and years since you’ve written. Some, like Drea, flit in and out of my life, but once upon a time I thought nothing of you, always of you, always of your happiness, always of your being. No longer. Now your face just appears in the faces of others, the faces of other women who look like you, pretty pale and fragile.
Now what are you. A mother, a mother probably again. I don’t follow you anymore. I know your son must be in middle school by now. Your son I encouraged you to abort. The son I named, Silas.
How the time flies? Your disgusting Army man of a husband, whose idea of exotic was to take you to Las Vegas. It’s the only time you’ve ever left the state in which you were born, in which you live. In this way I almost pity you, but I enjoyed telling you of my travels to Berlin, Hong Kong, Milan, Tokyo, Paris. Because I could hear your jealousy in your measured letters back.
You once said I was really smart but I had no actual knowledge. How can you know about a painting if you haven’t seen it?
Well my dear, I’ve seen them now. All of the ones you loved and I still don’t understand or really care about art. I’m not a creative person, and this no longer bothers me. You no longer make art. As far as I can tell. I don’t look at your internet life anymore.
I wanted to end it, officially, of course. To say goodbye to you, and banish you to the forgotten dust of my memories, kind of like how I know I went camping as a Girl Scout and I remember the cold and the dark of the mountains, but I can’t tell you anything else. I can remember Cassandra, her pale freckles, her smooth skin, her milky smells, the tears on her face. But there is no voice there anymore, there is no body.
Why did I love you? Did you ever know? Did I? Sometimes on accident I stumble across something of yours, and I think there might be a piece or two of your art still around my home. But like you, it’s becoming harder and harder to place.