Dear Rachel,

We’re in our thirties now and you know what it means to feel calm. You’ll grow in and out of many pairs of jeans, and with a sigh and a smile you’ll put them in a pile of things to get rid of. You know how good it feels to let go of what squeezes you too tightly. You’ll learn how to chop an onion without crying, how to preserve fruits for colder months. You know the necessity of confronting what makes you weep, how often winter comes in July.
He broke up with you. It still hurts to talk about, but His name is no longer your personal prayer. Instead, his name sounds like a kettle before it shrieks: like water about to boil, His name is the tension that comes from unpredictable movements, from explosive people. These days, your tongue is too heavy with memories to speak His name aloud. After all, growth is giving up what weighs you down. You don’t look for him behind grocery store aisles, in the green trucks that will pass you by, or in the arms of angry people anymore. When you turn your head now, it is only to look at the stars, who are far more faithful.
Convinced that there is a story in everything, you will interpret tea leaves in the morning, and create new futures with each breath. You’ll find pleasures your body hasn’t experienced yet, you’ll meet a joy your heart hasn’t known. Just as seasons force change in all living things, like the flowers you grow in your garden, you understand how to peel back the layers of self, to lay vulnerable long enough to grow. In perpetual inhalation, you’ve always known how to keep everything inside. But now, baby, you’re in the seasoning of your unfolding. You finally know what it means to exhale, how good it feels to let go.