It's been awful long hasn't it? I was thinking of the dun colored horse that wasn't black but was the fleetest nohow. How apocryphal Freddy was hugging it and weeping his great tears.
And how you were telling me to watch all the crabs scuttling around at the same time. Watch each one carefully because Po might, on a sunny day, do something like that, trying not to bend the leaves.
I also left a load of bananas on the beach, half stuck in the sand, hoping you would pick one out and have a meal of it. But you don't seem to be coming out of your house lately. The breakup was hard on you, wasn't it?
I used to push people I loved. Down the stairs. Kick them even. I think I wanted to feel that push, that kick. Because sometimes affection is like that. So much happiness it feels like a violence. Kids understand that burst.
Anyhow, I hope you feel better soon. I've been writing on my refrigerator the last slips of paper that Kafka wrote while he was dying.
He thinks the flowers are thirsty. Franny can't pass a flower by without telling me the bee color.
We all miss you. Even if you are so happy, think of us. Come out and play.
Friday, May 14, 2010
J.D. Salinger | "A Perfect Day For Bananafish" | 1948