Do You Keep My Notes?

Mikey, what do you do with the notes I send? I have no doubt but that you keep them for you keep everything. I’m laughing as I write that but it’s true. You have every letter your old girlfriend from New York sent you and you two have been writing since you were 14 years old.

I know for a fact that you have a piece of torn paper, stained with catsup, and no telling what else that has my phone number on it from the night we met. You were so sweet. That song you love came on just as I was walking by and you stood with a funny look in your eyes. You looked around quickly as if looking for someone. Then your eyes settled on me and you said, “Pardon me, please, but I love that song and can’t just sit here and listen. Would you dance with me?” You had such a sad look, I said “Sure” and without hesitation, reached out and grabbed your hand. I didn’t think about it, I just took your hand and led you to the place in the field where they were dancing. You didn’t talk as we moved along dancing to that slow, sad song – except somewhere near the middle, you quietly said “Thank you” as we continued to sway along. The silence didn’t seem odd at all for your eyes showed you were lost in the music; lost in a memory, perhaps.

After the song, we stopped and talked for a few minutes. I don’t remember a thing we said, but I do remember you made me laugh. I hate to sound trite and say it was magical but it was and both of us knew. Knew what? We just knew.

My friends were leaving and I had to go so I told you I had to run. I looked at you for a second, then turned to go, but turned back and asked “Aren’t you going to ask me for my number, you big goof?” For a second, you were a bit startled. Then, you looked so funny, like a happy little kid. I told you the number and you seemed to be saying it over and over in your head. You shook your head, slapped your pockets one by one as if looking for paper but didn’t come up with anything. You looked around on the ground, bent over to pick up an old dirty piece of paper, wrote the number down, and said “This is too important to trust to memory.” I was glad you felt that, too.

Months later I saw that old scrap of paper in your desk drawer and it made me smile. I am just as sentimental about how we met and the little bits of memory that go with it. Want me to prove it? What was the name of the song that we first danced to? “Since I Fell For You” by Lenny Welch. Yes, I hold on to things, too, more memories than paper, though.

So, I have no doubt you keep my cards and the notes. I just hope they don’t bring you down. I try not to make all of them sad but I am most moved to write when the blues have grabbed me with both hands and squeezed the joy from my thoughts and words.

I am so thankful I have you to share my thoughts. You are the only one I’ve ever let completely in and shared so much. I need that. Sharing my thoughts in the notes is a poor substitute for the hugs and how you used to hold me when my world would turn black but they are something. They are my lifeline. My release valve. I have to have that. I have to know there is someone out there who understands; who listens to me no matter what. I send you my notes. I send you my love.