Hello. Tell me all about your day...

Hello darling.

You're in the centre of England, and I'm over here. I've started a new job. It's reasonable; not as exciting as I thought it would be, but I'm learning a lot. People don't understand my accent, when I speak French. I'm foreign. I'm also losing that finesse I used to have in my mother tongue, I feel somehow duller.

I think of you often, mostly before going to sleep. You are a comforting thought. When I see you, you hold me so tight. You tell me beautiful things, and true things, and you make me reconsider my previously held views. You are kind and intelligent. You want the best for everyone. You are generous, despite not having much money. You are useful to the world, and have made that your mission in life, apropos of nothing other than a desire to help others. You don't think that this is a rare quality, but it is. Your body is so firm and soft, simultaneously, and your hands have worked so hard. If I ever dared, I think that the first thing I'd do would be to kiss those hands. I'd like to sit next to you and hold your hands gently in mine, then kiss the palms, the fingers.

You write to your granddaughter, you say, maybe, because you aren't sharing your day with anyone else. I say that it's better to share it with nobody than to share it with someone you're not sure about. I hate feeling that disjunct between myself and the person I'm supposed to be closest to. I can't bear it. I'd rather be on my own than pretending to somebody.

What did you wear, on her mother's wedding day, darling? How was it? I hope everyone was kind to you. You often seem almost embarrassed by yourself. You've got conviction in your beliefs; that we don't have to present ourselves or be superficial to be considered sufficient, but at an event, one that's not making you happy, where everyone is dressed up, it must be hard. Being marginal is always hard. If I could, if I was that person, I'd love to be your safe place. I'd love it if my arms made you feel as safe as your arms make me feel. I want to be there after hard days for you to wrap yourself up in. I want to be soft and gentle with you, though I am not, in the world.

I wouldn't have to pretend with you. I wonder how you'd react to being told you're beautiful? I don't think it's your aim in life, beauty. To be beautiful in what you do and say, yes, but to be beautiful... you buy your clothes in second hand shops, and you don't care. I've never seen you wear make up. Your hair is short or wild, and natural, grey. You remind me of a hedgehog, because your cheeks are russet, like the autumn and you smile so readily. Your eyes are bright and kind behind Gandhi glasses. Would it insult you, to call you beautiful? I'd never mean to allay you with supermodels or trashy magazines. I just mean that there's nobody else I'd rather look at, or hear, or touch. The other kind of beauty is cheap; it's bought, or made. Nobody could buy or fabricate what you are. Nobody could buy the feeling of safety elicited from your strong arms wrapped around me, despite your being so much smaller than me. Your beauty is deep and rich, it's extravagant though you're abstemious. Would you be worried, being notified as to your possession of something so luxurious?

You haven't got a passport, hence you won't be following me around Europe. You're steadfast like that. I don't want to return to our isle. Maybe it's homesickness that makes me yearn so for someone familiar, intelligent and kind; or maybe it is simply you.

Love,

me.