|
|
While moving, which I seem to do every year, I read some old letters. I read different letters each move (after the favorites of course) and this time landed in the oppression of high school. Some of them came from the girl who should have been my best friend, but somehow I was un-best friendable. We had names for each other in our letters and she was Lady Davenport. (Earlier, she had been Pony and I had been Dally but Hinton had passed into the Romantics by then.)
Now I would call our letters "ironic harlequin." And am lonely for just a minute for the self that would not.
Lady Davenport wrote me on my birthday, maybe seventeen and said:
Don't tell anyone about what happened. you blabber mouth.
I love you.
I don't recall what I wasn't supposed to tell, but still I feel scolded and worried that I did. The word blabber still slaps me.
And I don't recall that she loved me either. was it one more tragic fiction we were playing at? or was it just the names that were fiction?
Lady Davenport apparently married and moved to Scotland and is a poet. And we have a secret that I wish I could recall.
|
|
