A Love Letter

Isaac Hollander McCreery, 1 November 2015

To my friends,

You are God’s exquisite children: beautiful, intricate threads of humanity. You put yourself in front of me, letting me witness your infinitely complex shapes; your bubbles and your steam, your filigree and your quilted patchwork; your blades, your glass, your sounds and textures and pipes and threads. You are beautiful.

I knew language was not enough when we walked in the dark together, and even then, every word you spoke was dripping with so much love that it got all over my shirt. As I lay on the concrete, and bicycles whizzed and clicked by, looking like massive moving castles of grace and beauty from down here, you told me, again and again, how to love you and how to love myself.

You permeated the colorful walls of that house: crept under the rugs and through the dirt beneath the wood. You crept onto the lawn and seeped into the asphalt, down the road, and billowed up into the sky. Even the long solitary nights, you were with me in that house, lying on the couch, talking, laughing, breathing. I could hear your music when no one else could have. I cried and cried and cried when you opened the door to my room, sat down on my bed, and told me you loved me. I had a lot—I have a lot—but in that moment, you were all, and you were enough.

When we’d ride our bikes, whistling out past that rare bend on 511, and turning right up Vermillion Road toward the Creek, I knew that I had nothing and everything. Just us; you and me and our bikes. The shale and water, the splashes, our bodies, the heat.

And frozen custard.

And when the ground froze, you were the snow. The vapor of your breath turned to fog in the night, lit up by the lamp posts exposed by the once painted but now bare trees. It snowed and snowed and snowed. It was windy. Your smile got rosier, but even through all the layers of wool your hug never changed.

You know, I fall in love with you everytime I see you. And I see you in everyone I fall in love with. And that love is how I know infinity. It is the only resource I know to be infinite: I know it firsthand, more certainly than I know anything else. I’ve breathed a lot of air in my life, but I can count the atoms. I love you infinitely, and that is proof enough.

I miss you, I do. I miss your skin. We were all wrapped in each other for a year, and it was far from perfect, but it was luminous. I wanted all of you; I still want all of you. It hurts so much to not be there in the embrace of your arms and your words, screaming louder than anything I’ve ever heard, “I love you”. Where are your bright, tender hands now? Pumping someone else’s heart, I hope—I know—comforting someone else from their insides out. Fill them up with your love, my friends, and let it overflow onto the streets!

Let me gush. Let me try and try and try and try to tell you how much I love you. Because we all know that we all need it, that this is what healing looks like. As we look over the brink, standing here at the intersection of our ancestors’ sins and our descendants’ fall from grace, we are at the pinnacle, together.

With so much love,