I am going to burn this letter and add it to your ashes so you can read it.
Know this: just because you left your body doesn’t mean I’m going to stop loving you.
Knew you were sick. Jay told me. But neither of us were prepared for such a precipitous departure. Trying to go out like Amelia Earhart? West with the night, too.
I hate goodbyes, I hate change, so here’s some island news for the next life:
Marianna fell in love with the Ag Department guy. It’s mutual. Explains why he was visiting her chickens so often. Don’t tell anyone, but she may be eating for two.
Marguerite is still bigoted and bitchy, but somehow doesn’t bother me so much. Her inane comments just roll right off this sensitive skin. Maybe I’ve built an immunity!
Marz sent a tape (old school!) to American Idol (told you he sings, yes? a gorgeous tenor); he’s constantly checking his phone for their response, which irritates his siblings no end.
My book (which I could not have written without you) hit stores in time for the holidays. Sales were okay, because, as usual, you were right: the world was ready for a feminist Odyssey.
Horses at Columbia Gorge has been accepted at a fringe festival in Seattle (maybe I already told you?).
And speaking of horses, hold yours: Didi actually apologized recently. (Her version: “Your hair looks good grey!” I just colored it for a Suzan Lori-Parks play.) Maybe she’s in better fettle because her art is selling. La Bening bought three canvases last month!
Jasper is staying for your funeral, thank god. (you’re probably right about him, too: Gandhi reincarnated. Such fortitude.)
Michael. Michael Michael Michael. What pisses me off is that you didn’t get to meet him, this compassionate musical human who strolled into my affections. Again you were right (don’t you get tired of that?): I can have a non-abusive relationship. Man.
Back to you.
Thank you, Lulu, for every single thing. I even love our (rare) fights. I am a better person (cheesy!) because of you. A better writer, better performer, better woman. And better looking, thanks to your inimitable style tips: “No, Queenie, you cannot wear that Betsey Johnson frock with orange fishnets, unless you want to incur retinal damage.”
I am loving you, Lulu. Current, present tense.