#nelle writes

[quijotine]

SHOUTING INTO THE VOID BECAUSE TODAY AFTER 5 YEARS WORKING ON MY FIRST NOVEL, AN AGENT FINALLY ASKED FOR THE FULL MANUSCRIPT

[penofnelle]

Man in the booth

Have you ever wondered how some memories are kept so nicely? How you can still imagine the smell of the dish you had one evening years ago? The sound of laughter at a good joke you told. The warmth of the last hug you got from a friend. 

Some people say they have a very good memory. They should thank the man in the booth. 

He looks like many men. Your grandfather. Your neighbor. Your brother. An old friend. The mailman. A random stranger. An odd but perfect cultivation that, when you look at him, you find yourself feeling nostalgic.

It’s a fitting thing, when you see his booth. It's old and sturdy. There are stories in the shelves themselves if you know where to look. The grooves and wood stain. The dings and scratch marks. The feel of the woodgrain when you brush your fingertips across it. 

But there's more than just the shelves. 

The bits and bobs that decorate them. Chipped plates and old photographs of places you've never seen. Remnants of people you've never seen, might never meet. An old pair of earrings. A stained tie. A chewed up pen. Homemade gloves. 

Small things made their home on the shelves but that was not all. 

There were bigger things. 

A body length mirror with fingerprints on the glass. A baby's cradle with tiny teeth marks on one corner. A bicycle with a flat wheel and missing bell. 

There was even a kitchen sink that leaked. 

But no matter the size or what it was, it looked normal. No need to change it. Everything was in its rightful place. All put together in just the right way. 

Among it all is the man. He sits or stands behind his little counter decorated with more things. His fingers at home tapping on the wood or turning the pages of a book. 

He waits. 

He waits for you to come by. To go perusing the shelves and pick an item, a memory. For you to leave one behind.

He'll keep it safe and sound. It'll be perfectly fine in his booth, don't you worry. 

Then when you're feeling nostalgic and wish to remember the gentle touch of your mother's hand or the taste of the first meal you cooked on your own, come to the man's booth. He'll give you back the bits and bobbles you left behind. 

Then he'll go back behind the counter of his odd yet perfect little booth, where stories were in and on the shelves, waiting for another visitor. 

~

Kofi

[tiny-yet-thoughtful]

I come and go as I please. So I am always there. They need me. Or is it the other way around? No matter I am here with them. In their company, I am able to see their smiles that fill me with warmth. I am there when their faces show no emotion and they look more similar to a statue than a human. Cold to the touch and unmoving. But slowly they thaw and come back to me. I greet them with open arms and a reassuring smile. They do not have to be sorry. It is not their fault. And I will never blame them. And when I feel an ache in my body and no energy to even move from where I lay on the cold ground someone joins me. Their warmth at my side easing my pain and either their voice to fill in the silence or their silence to lull me to sleep. And when I wake I find that the ache is gone and I am able to move again. I'd rather be here with them than in my cold and unwelcoming home. No. Never mind, that was never my home. I do believe my home is with them. So I come and go as I please. But why would I ever want to leave?

[penofnelle]

Dear -

I miss you.

I haven't heard from you in almost three years, I think. The last time we spoke was through text around December of '21. You said you sent your letter, and I responded with excitement and a link to a song I thought you might like.

After that, only a few days later my next text of another link just said delivered.

I never did receive that letter.

At first, I didn't worry. It wasn't the first time we went radio silent. After all, we had spoken mostly through letters in the first place ever since you moved. And the last time you had gone silent, you had been going through some stuff. I understand.

But as it became the new year and now my text messages didn't even say delivered and no other letter did appear I grew worried. That last text mentioned you were sick. I hoped you were okay.

I still sent links to new songs and a picture of a bracelet you mailed to me a few years ago.

I wished you a happy birthday and hope you were keeping warm when the weather got cold where you lived.

I told you that I made a friend when I had been nervous and things were going well in school.

Thanksgiving and Christmas came-a year since I last heard from you. The clock struck 12 and it was the new year. I thought I should send you a letter.

I wrote a lot in that letter, since it had been so long and a lot happened. I experienced loss and grief that made me feel hollow inside for months. I hoped it would reach you like all the others.

But the text was still unread, and I never got a letter in return. I started to look up obituaries in your city, and it killed me. I didn't actually know your parents' full names or their phone numbers. All these years and I didn't know something as simple as that, but we were young. We saw each other in school for years every day. You had only been to my house one time before you moved. I never actually went to your house when you lived so close, but once I went to dinner with your family. You sat next to me at the table.

If you had died, would your parents have let me know? You had my number, my email, my address. They were sure to have seen the letters we exchanged over the years, each decorated and sent with love. If you had died, they could have easily called to let me know. Sent a letter. But I never got any of that.

I know it's a big leap to assume someone was dead, but you were never a person to just ghost someone. When we talked it was always genuine. We never fought. Too much alike and nonconfrontational. But we were always upfront towards each other.

I wrote to you about a dream where I kissed a girl and then about when I actually had my first kiss with a boy. You wrote to me about a crush you had and how my previous letter made you flustered with how I wrote it. I didn't hide things from you. You know things my family doesn't.

I never hesitated to share with you what I wrote down in ink and my attempt at cursive. I didn't see it either in your words in blue ink that you sent back on folded small sheets of paper.

I texted a common friend we had to see when they last heard from you. It had been the September I last heard from you. I asked them to send you a message, but I dont ever think they did. Maybe you told them not to share if you responded, I don't know.

Did you not want to write to me anymore? Did I do something wrong? Did you grow tired of me? Forget?

Why wouldn't you tell me?

It made me sick to think about it. Either one of my closest friends died or decided to cut me off from their life.

The worst part is I don't know.

I've actually had dreams where I saw you again. Where I ran into you and finally got to know you were okay or we just talked like old times. Where I've gotten to hug you again. Where I've actually been able to ask you the question of 'what happened?'. I wake up, and it hurts to remember that it was just a dream and not a memory.

Not knowing is killing me. I've actually called you and gotten a voice-mail. It was an automated message, so I don't even know if you have that same number. I can't even hear your voice. I've left a few messages. Even saying that if this was someone else to just text me and let me know.

Please just let me know.

Love, -

[penofnelle]

[penofnelle]