An Open Letter to a Lifelong Love

Dear You,

Yes, I have always known that you were with me. 

How could I ever ignore that honey sweetness that coats every single inch of my mouth with a mellow warmth when I speak to you? How could I deny the rush inside me every time you sweep me in the powerful yet refreshing whirlpool of your majesty? Is there even a way to hide how a giggle bubbles up inside of me – minuscule at first, then, slowly encasing me in prismic wonder --- every single time I recall how I sometimes stumble and stutter, all because of your golden presence? No, it goes without saying; I have always been completely, fiercely, wildly in love with you.

You didn’t take your time in capturing my heart either, a seed little by little emerging in a rich, moist earth. Oh no, you rocketed to me, fully throttling my way and consuming whatever little defences I had in a fiery zoom. I was so young when you came, so unaware that for the rest of my existence, I would crave you. I didn’t have a clue that I would be spending days with my lips buried in your solid bosom, your intoxicating perfume enveloping me and deftly carving loopy cursive letters into the trunk of my memory. No, I didn’t realise it then, but now I know, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Of course, it wasn’t just about sticky, indulgent kisses that shot out technicolour fireworks in my vision. If you had left it at that, dazzled me as you unfurled your constellations and nothing else, it would have already been enough. Instead, you reached out your celestial arms across the void, took me in your embrace, and lifted me high. Together, we have dashed full speed ahead through the aureate paved roads of exhilarating success and created jugs out of the miry clay of pain. Each time, you were the trunk that shot me up to a cloudless, cerulean sky.

I suppose this little missive is just my way of saying thank you for choosing me, for adoring me. Here’s to a glorious lifetime by your side.

Here’s to the music of your voice as I mouthed out words as a wee babe. Here’s to every giggle making my entire tiny body quake as I sounded out the combination of symbols I’d just taken in. I must admit that I may have driven Mum and Dad crazy with my constant yammering, by insisting that stainless steel consonants lassoed together with nary an A, an E, an I, an O, or a U between them made sense to be uttered. What can I do, though? I’ve always been besotted with you.

Here's to the clunkily composed sliver of verse I decided to pen at six years-old to honour you, to show you the flower buds you have sown in my soul. Here’s to your dulcet whispers in my ear to teach me what sounded alike, like a face staring at a mirror. In my pencilled chicken scratch, I described in rhyme a sun-soaked hill of daisies only my mind has ever been too. Then, you muttered “Look!” and deftly led my fingers to illustrate the mount in stubby crayon. As expected from a child, it wasn’t exactly astonishing. What could I do, though? I’ve always been besotted with you.

Here's to the Cupid’s arrow that pierced my consciousness when I heard Molière’s tongue for the first time at eight years old. Here’s to gasping, almost sobbing at the ethereal language that pirouetted into my head with just one episode of ‘Madeline’. Just one ‘bonjour’, and I had vowed to learn to contort my mouth to produce that delectable bee’s drone of French, to tame the roaring lion that is conjugation to create something for and with you. I made good on that promise at 27, as you and the gilt-framed proficiency certificates on my wall know. It wasn’t always the smoothest course; practising a new rule always felt like crashing on rocks before a plunge down a waterfall. What could I do, though? I have always been besotted with you.

Here's to that old 101 Dalmatians notebook that I filled with my own Sweet Valley fanfiction and a candy floss nascent dream. Here’s to the laurel sprig of an idea of the Greek goddesses Aphrodite and Athena transforming into unsure teens falter footedly navigating the golden heights of Olympus, a thought you planted in the soil of my imagination. In illegible, all-too-fat script, I recounted their adventures, guided only by the Polaris of being enamoured by you and my innate want to tell stories. Just like that, the desire to send my writing into the boundless onyx expanse of possibility crashed upon me like a meteorite. It was, well, schmaltzy. What could I do, though? I have always been besotted with you.

Here's to the ink-soaked bylines, from secondary school to the whole nation, that bore the name of this very heart you’ve captivated. Here’s to the sparkling literary competition medals, won with ludicrous amounts of coffee and Panadol tempered headaches, that hung precariously on my neck since my emotionally fuelled adolescence. Here’s to the artisan hands you gave me that moulded molten statements into advertising copy and press releases. In all these, the question remained. What could I do, though? I have always been besotted with you.

Here's to your wide open arms that, after a decade and a half of shelving weaving word tapestries, wrapped me up and draped me in your jewels of poetry. Here’s to the soft, rain shower cadence of your ‘Welcome home’, to your patience in letting my footing on the page come back drop by agonising drop. Here’s to igniting the embers of courage in me to draft, to submit, to lose, to retry. Of course, because of you, one of the creations born in my mind will soon be gracing an anthology. The willowy path to regain my prowess was full of untold mysteries, of course. There have been times I had to stumble in the shadows just to see how far I could progress. What could I do, though? I have always been besotted with you. 

Here's to the fields of encouragement you have led me to till. Here’s to you cooing in my ear to notice eroded souls, desert psyches and to plant a bit of your seeds in them. Here’s to the scarlet poppy petals in your every grain, your fragrance that permeates the atmosphere of despair and captures even me. Sure, to certain eyes, it may appear a bit odd --- too cloying, too saccharine, noxious even. What can I do, though? I have always been besotted with you.

Here's to you, Language, my lifelong love. I am and have always been besotted with you.

Oh, and of course, here’s to this piece that you’ve helped me to compose. It goes without saying that I will always be besotted with you.

Speechless in love with you,

Alexis