December 2nd

Dear Jasper,

Meg gave me your address and it gives me tiny leaps of happiness to think about you getting this letter and smiling. I hope it's a surprise that stays with you in the best way possible.

You know I usually write my mom a letter once a week, but I know she wouldn't mind me taking some of her time and giving it to you. My therapist has given me a few pointers about focusing more on the people who matter to me now than the one who is no longer with me.

I wanted to tell you, too, about the day we met. I wasn't in a good place. Of course, you already know that. You know about Mom, and the desperate grief, and the waves.

I haven't told you yet, because I didn't want to scare you, about the sand, slipping from between my toes in the outgoing tide. About the steps I took forward, the water crashing around my thighs while I stared at boats so far out I could hardly see them, and imagined not stopping.

I haven't told you about the echoing roar of the surf and the moon, and the man who sat next to me.

You have this peacefulness about you. You're okay with silence when it's needed.

I know you were nervous, planning to give me the hexaflexagon, unsure of my reception. I know I hadn't been quite kind earlier that day when we talked.

I don't know how you are kind. I don't know how you looked at me and saw someone who needed to know they'd been seen, but you've created a place in my life I didn't even know was going to be so necessary.

Tonight I am full of anxiety. I just pulled into Louisiana and it's dark so I haven't been able to get my bearings yet. I do know the Gulf is near and I can't wait to see it. I have to wait to see New Orleans till my dad comes to visit. I want my first experience with it to be with him.

But I'm distracted.

I wanted to tell you something. It's scary to be this open, but you make it a little easier every time you simply say what's in your mind.

When I backed hurriedly out of the waves, shaking with the panic of nearly making such a monumental mistake, I sat on the sand and pulled my knees to my chest, and tears ran down my cheeks until I finally got to the point where I could stand without feeling like my legs would buckle under me.

I pulled off my soggy shoes and socks, and walked back up to the boardwalk, focusing on my breathing and completely oblivious to the people around me. I don't actually know where I went that afternoon. I don't remember what I did, only that I walked for over two hours. My feet were sore and my face was sunburned by the time I returned to my car.

Something changed though. I knew that regardless of grief and pain in my life, regardless of the misery that had become a central part of my being, I would never choose to walk into a situation I couldn't reverse again.

There was something in me ready to fight for my life and it was a relief to find it was still there. The fear knocked back that dreadful aching hollow in my chest, and even though it's still there, the knot of pain has loosened somewhat.

I ate supper at the Irish Pub near Nye Beach, then walked up to the bluff overlooking the ocean just as the sun was beginning to sink toward the water.

Of course you know the rest of that story, but I want you to know the hexaflexagon gave me something physical to hang onto. On hard nights I would hold it in my hands and remember there was someone who had taken the time to actually see me.

You deserve to know you matter. I suppose you might have surmised this by the amount of texts you get from me, or the nights when I call you and tell you about the sights I saw that day.

But you deserve to know that you are not just a way to pass the time or an ear to hear when no one else is available.

And it's frightening to tell you this.

You are a brilliant human being. You are creative and kind. You somehow shine bright even though I hear the pain in your voice and know your heart is broken too.

I don't know how you're kind, but you are. You're thoughtful and I know it's gotten you hurt, but you just keep being thoughtful.

I just have so much respect for who you are as a person, and you deserve to know that.

Please know that I am basking in the wonderfulness of becoming your friend, and I hope we get to be friends for the rest of time.

I can't wait to be back in Oregon, and see you in person, and maybe walk the beach and talk about life.

And think about life.

Also, I wrote a poem. I'm not creative like that, and I just want you to see it even though I know it's an embarrassment to the human race in general and me in particular.

It doesn't even rhyme and I'm embarrassed. I couldn't read it to you over the phone, so I decided to just put it in this letter and let you laugh at it without fear of hurting my feelings.

So, here goes.

“Victorious gravity, the heaviness anchoring reckless abandon. Floating, tugging on reality. Alone, majestic on the shore, waves crashing, moon rising. Standing in freedom, never-ending.”

Thank you for being my friend.

Bo

Bo writes a poem and a letter to Jasper. "I wanted to tell you, too, about the day we met. I wasn't in a good place. Of course, you already know that. You know about Mom, and the desperate grief, and the waves."