Another Flipping Letter

Here I am, writing another flipping letter. Not that it will ever get to you. I wonder what you are doing right now. I like to think of you as thirteen, hair catching the sunlight and falling into your pale face, sitting on the bench in your Oxford, Pantalaimon curled up by your side.

Of course, that is probably not like it is everyday. No, there are days when you are sick, or worried. Maybe you have had your heart broken or caught a cold. But I think of you, and I don't think of all of the great times we had. Well, I do, of course. I still feel the taste of that fruit. But the moments I remember most are the vulnerable ones. How it made you develop a bit of fragility, unlike the tough, sturdy Lyra I knew. The moments when you were torn away from Pantalaimon, when losing a part of yourself made you gain a part of me-made us gain a little bit of each other.

Well, you know I have a wife now. Kamara. I told you that in my last letter. Of course, the letter could never have gotten to you, but I think on some level we do connect. It seems impossible to go through something like this-to love someone as much as this-and not be able to tap into their thoughts, to feel their movements.

Anyway, as I was saying- I have a wife now. And a child. I missed on our session last year, at our bench on midsummer's, because my wife-who I love so much, more than anyone in this world, was having a child. She's beautiful, our child. She's got dark hair that sticks up in rather unruly angles, and enormous dark eyes and very pale skin. She's a stunner. Kamara and I had a bit of a row deciding what to call her, but in the end I won-Lyra. Lyra Parry. And she's beautiful, our Lyra. I'm not sure if I've loved someone that much since the last Lyra. But I hope you aren't mad about me missing our day. I don't like to think of you missing me.

But all of this is pointless. I'm not sure why I'm writing to you, it's three in the morning and I've just gotten up with the baby and now she's asleep, but I can't sleep and I'm just so tired.....

Lyra, I dreamt about you. I've never dreamt about you before, you know. The year after we left each other in the land of the mulefa, I didn't have one dream. Not one, not about you nor otherwise. I think my brain shut down, until I began to heal, because if I had dreams about you I couldn't keep living, I couldn't see you in my sleep as well as seeing you behind my eyes when I was awake. So I didn't dream. But tonight I dreamt about you, I remember it so clearly. You were standing in the world of the mulefa, and you were adult. Maybe I was just imagining you as an adult, but anyhow, you were just as beautiful as you were when you were thirteen, if not more so. You were standing under the seed-pod tree, and you weren't looking straight at me, you were looking down, and Pantalaimon was curled up at your side. I stayed, watching, for a while, as if you and Pan were just a pretty picture. I was drinking in your beauty, drinking in the intoxicating ambrosia of being with you again. You sat there for a while, in that land, and then you looked at me. You smiled softly, not surprised at all to see me, after you haven't seen me for so many years. And I realized you were holding something in your hand, something soft, and I couldn't see what it was. I craned my neck, as if to see, and then you held it out to me. When I saw what it was, I was shocked. I think I must have reeled back, seeing that little red fruit, because you reached out your slender pale hand to steady me, and right before you touched me, right before you touched my shoulder for the first time in so many years, so many years, I awoke, the taste of that fruit on my lips, and that beautiful image seared in my vision.

It was the baby's cries that woke me. And maybe it was better, maybe it was better. Because I think if you had touched me, put your beautiful soft hand to my shoulder to steady me, even in a dream, I would never, never be able to live in reality again. It does not suit us to dwell in dreams, to live in memories.

I wonder if you ever dream of me. I hope you don't, I would hate to subject you to the pain I felt tonight as I saw the little red fruit-tasted that little red fruit, and saw the beautiful hand that reached out to give it to me.

Love, (I'll never stop)

Will