an open letter

Dear Emily,

 I've spent the past four days at home sitting in your sweatpants, eating bread and alternating between writing cover letters and listening to the Shins while crying.

your sweatpants say WVU DANCE and are way too long for me. I imagine they hit the top of your ankles.

sometimes, I get really angry at myself when I think about how much life I have, and how much of it I waste being unsure of myself and what I want. Also, I get mad at myself when I think that you never felt afraid or unsure. Of course you did. You were flawed as hell, thank god.  People call you an angel now, but you were my rebellious, impulsive best friend.  You were a total mess sometimes, which is good, because you also had this uncanny ability to actually not pass judgement on people for the stupid stuff they did. most of the time, anyway.

I wish I had some of your perspective on this whole thing. Probably because I know it would start with "dude" and end with "just do what you want".  You never really gave advice so much as repeated back to me what I said like I'd already given myself the answer.

Whenever I come home, I half expect to see you. Remember when we were little girls and made up a talk show? You were the host, all polished and professional, and I was the unfortunate cast of characters you had to interview. A wealthy heiress, a bipolar actress, a pop singer with an (obviously) live performance of some Hilary Duff song.

I think ten year old us probably wants me to go to New York, but they also thought that 22 was an impossibly old age.

In times like these, there should be some kind of reprieve from death, so that I can call you on the phone, and from your celestial perch you can tell me to chill out and stop making such a big deal out of everything.

Caroline and Carly are going to be around this weekend. Its so lonely without you stretched out impossibly across the only doorway, so that we all have to leap over you or suffer the weird horse-chomp noise you make when you're half waked.

If anyone can figure out how to text from the ethereal plane of existence, its you.  If you figure it out soon, I'd appreciate your two cents.  Better yet, any materialization opportunities that might lead to a momentary hug would be great, too.

 I think about the love I haven't found, the dream job I don't have, the kids I haven't even thought of--and how I'm going to tell you about them when I finally do get those things.

Sometimes, I think we've just lost touch. That makes me sad, too, but its easier to imagine you still dancing with koala bears and kangaroos than to recognize the reality of the situation.

 Em, I am so lost as usual. Everyone says my decisions are "not life-or-death", but isn't everything only life-or death? Isn't that what we learned? You either live, or you don't. I just want to get it right, so I can tell you about it later.

Love,

Liv