I want to write a letter. A letter to Charlotte. Charlotte Piper, the girl I never had.
I want to write about sensible shoes. And how tiresome they can be. Also glass slippers. And how much they can hurt.
I want to write about skin. The softness of it. Like on your arm that was around me on the couch in the dark when I cried and blew my nose into your organic shirt, the one I gave you but always wear.
I want to write about that mom in London, the one who didn’t have a crib. And how she put her baby in a drawer.
I want to tell Charlotte that I’d have called her Charlie. And that her drawer would have been the warmest nest there ever was.
I want to write about the bathtub. About how sometimes it has my back. Like this morning when I couldn’t sleep and I laid myself down in it with a comforter and a pillow and Byron Katie, the lady with kind eyes who loves what is. Even in a tub.
I want to write about how you asked me to tell you about what I was feeling when I cried and the best I could say was, “I am.”
I want to tell Charlotte that I’m not entirely settled on “Piper,” that quite possibly it’s just a passing phase on account of my Netflix binge on Orange is the New Black last week when I was sad and scared and had writer’s block.