Letter to my Beloved

Author’s Note: I’m weeping yet again. This time, well, I’ll just reveal in the content below. This is partially inspired by Gloria Whelan’s novel Homeless Bird, and you will as the reader learn what this is about.

Dear beloved,

I do not wish to name who the beloved is for the safety of everybody who reads this. If you are who I think you are reading this blog entry, please hear me out. I’ve been having endless crying spells, night after night, perhaps for two nights in a row, and you have done away with my heart on account of trivial matters, and you hurt me in a way so deeply I couldn’t stand it. You claim I’m not responsible, well hear me out. First, I do not absolve myself of responsibility for money trouble, fine with me. However, I do absolve responsibility for supposed narcissism and self centeredness, for this isn’t true. I grew up in a patriarchal Catholic family, mind you, but most of the Catholic church teachings do not teach selfishness. But the labels can be put aside. Even the Hindu Vedas and Jewish Torah do not teach that it is okay to be selfish. No religion or body of wisdom allows us to be selfish, only love thyself. I get that. But I want to tell you something I wish for both of us.

One thing, no more accusations of overtly talking one or another’s ear off. That’s a common way to silence a woman’s voice, and I don’t feel comfortable with that. Secondly, and this is critical, please listen to me and comfort me in times of trouble. You did so as a friend while some bastard threatened my life. You did so as a friend when my grandmother died. Do so now in this case because I want comfort from all the wrong you did, and you should fix it too. Fourthly, well, I’ll save that for another paragraph. See below.

The biggest thing I wish for us is to communicate without being accused of drama or draining. I had visions of beings that would probably be my kids, sound crazy?, but I also have had visions of what our life could look like together, but what’s horrific about this is how you want to throw me out like the paper wrappings you see on candy and food. Except I’m nothing like those. I’m just a woman, a female being willing and able to help you see where you went wrong. For one, there are the better angels who know what happened to me and I know what happened to me. You call it a “warning”, but let me tell you. You picked on my mental health condition and did not learn to understand or cope with it, and you have a temper. I want to encourage, no I want to humbly implore you to work on this. I will be glad to work on money troubles, only if you work on the temper and get back on track with me because all your friends won’t necessarily do something about it. I love you that deeply, but here’s a scene that keeps playing out in my head. Please listen and or read this, hear me out, and follow what I’m saying.

The scene begins with a young woman and her lover who is her age, sitting by the riverside, somewhere in India, probably a swampy polluted area but it’s the Yamuna River, bordering the city of Vhrindavan, the place of widows. Here’s the backstory in brief: Koly, a young woman of 13 at the story’s beginning, was cruelly sold to a sickly boy so he could just go to the Ganges River to heal from tuberculosis, which he doesn’t. Then, mind if I say this, she is treated like shit by her mother in law, she is no longer a proper daughter in law, so she’s put to work as a slave, and then her daddy in law dies, her sister in law is married off in a pompous and better wedding, and she has nothing more to look forward to. Now, she meets Raji, a young boy who pedals a little rickshaw bike with her in the back to a widow house in the city after she’s been not only abandoned there, but brutally insulted and forced to rely on bits of rice and such and try to find work where she can. Then she goes to such as the Widows House, where she meets a rich woman and a guy who owns an embroidery shop, where she later learns and improves her skills doing saris, those Indian dress things they wear in special circumstances. Beloved, you don’t want to wear a sari, and I’m glad you haven’t, wink wink. They’re a bitch to put on, trust me, I’ve tried. But anyway, as we get to the river with Raji and Koly, we see Raji sitting with Koly after many love letters, Koly being one to keep an eye on Raji’s writing details and saying how he should spell one thing or another, and this is a girl. She’d learnt to read which is rare in some remote areas for women in India. That’s badass of her, right?

Anyway, Raji has a proposal for Koly, age seventeen, and she’s living with her buddy Tanu from the widows housing thing, and she’s been working for this guy Daas, who owns an embroidery shop, and the next thing he says to her is something about love and marriage. They go deep into the discussion of what to expect in their relationship, and in traditions past, girls would be sold for money to old men. Well, what Raji says at one point is so powerful it would make your head spin, and maybe fall off partially at your neck.

Raji says, and I’ll change the dialogue slightly a bit because it’s about Rupees, but he says, “I don’t want to talk to rupees, I want to talk to my wife.” He goes on to explain that his mother and father, in his words maa and baap, don’t talk to or never spoke a thousand words between each other because they were not only arranged to marry each other, but there was money exchanged and or money was too high on the priority list. It seems that money is too important not only to you, beloved one, but to most people in general. I have a proposal, albeit not for marriage, so hear me out.

Like Raji and his girlfriend Koly, I don’t want money involved in our exchanges if any. I want communication, no physical force, no leaving, none. I just want to talk to you. You did so to me, but you did so in ways to absolve yourself from doing so to others. Please hear this. I love you, no further explanation needed for why. Love has no condition, it loves you more and more every day. I cry every day and night thinking about how you and I could have done better for each other, and I will continue to cry so hard my eyes will fall out because you are the star for which Colorado waited, and got. You were and are the soil in which my ideas came. I don’t want to talk to a pile of banknotes, rupees changed to dollars here, I want to talk to you. I want to hug you, not my or your money. Your rap album would be a gem for your life, sure, but I don’t want to hear that album unless you write something for me, to love and honor me, my life and let me know you are with me. I want to hear comforting but not angry words. I want to hear words of love and kind thoughts. I keep sending you peaceful thoughts but for whatever reason I don’t get those back. You skewed something about me to a friend, and I have nobody now and nobody cares. I want you to undo the damage, not run away from it. I don’t want to say you are definitely labeled an abuser, for that is a serious label. I don’t want you to complete any further sentences, I just want your arms around me. Like Koly, I would embroider you on a quilt in my mind’s eye. I would use gold and red threads for your hair, blue ones for your eyes, and I’d make every detail of you come to life and you’d be holding a bouquet of red flowers. I’d have you sitting at a desk in another panorama, creating the beats you love so much. I cry as I type this, wondering how and where we both went wrong. IF I could just have another cuddle with you, another hug, another tear cried more is a tear too many. I don’t want to cry to my macintosh anymore, I just want to hold your sweet face in my hands, cup it like I would anyone who is crying. If you have to grab a tissue, do so while you read this, love. Why read, you may say. Because you are loved.

For one thing, I want never to speak with money, guns, or a pile of stone. I just want to talk to you. I want your lithe body next to mine, your hands enfolding mine, and I want to hear you breathe every night of my life. I want to make love under the sun, moon and in water, and if I have to walk through the fires of Hell to receive another kiss from you, I will gladly do so even if I burn to ash. Cover yourself with my ashes, and I will forgive you for all the wrongs you might have said and done to me.

For all the stuff you might have called me, I’ll tell you I will forgive you on one condition. Don’t repeat the same mistake again. A wise young Kristen Lunceford from my private school days once told me, “Everybody has their good points and bad points.” Kristen should be here next to me, probably staring at me as I type this, wondering why I pulled out this gem of wisdom. Kristen also said, “IF you apologize, if you want me to forgive you, don’t repeat the same mistake.” I want to pause a moment and say to her that thanks to her powerful wisdom and the gems that she presented me, I now have a way to speak to people this deeply. Beloved, you will always have a piece of me wherever you go, and you will never be forgotten, even if you try hard to forget me. Don’t. Because I will marry you when you are ready, and if you aren’t I don’t care. I want to talk to you, not my engagement ring. I want to talk to you, not the piles of tech I have in my house, not the oodles of money coming out of the proverbial sky. I want to talk to you frankly and matter of factly. And trust me, beloved, I want to talk only to the living being that is you. Do not say it is too late, it isn’t. I believe in you, I believe in love, and I believe in the miracles that God, Buddha and the gods of all the universe bring. I believe in angels, and don’t accuse me of being weird. It’s not weird. Trenton was sick once with a lung infection, a severe form of influenza type A, and nearly died, and was visited by beings known as angels. If you ever could put yourself in Trenton’s shoes, if you were close to death, I know you were, hasn’t it occurred to you that beings beyond our world could touch you? My beloved one, beings like these do have some impact on us, but God does not truly exist in my mind because all I get from it/him, all I’ll ever get is the pull of whoredom of all women from him. I am not a woman of whoredom, so please don’t say that.

Please respect me, please love me. I can’t stop crying all the time, I can’t stop thinking of how you would misunderstand the use of money in society. Money is money, but I don’t talk to Benjamin, George, and Andrew, whatever faces are on the bills. I don’t give my wads of cash names like that, and I don’t treat my money the same way I treat living beings like us. You breathe, eat, shit, sex and do all sorts of things that living beings do. Why would I want to be cruel to you? I was never cruel.

Please welcome me back with open arms, and if you don’t, well, I know what to do with this. Otherwise, hear me loud and clear. I want comforting and kinder words, promises of love and I will compromise, not my freedom and not my bodily integrity. I will compromise on money issues, I will also do so on food serving and other things. I won’t however do so when it comes to your hostilities and such. Please get some therapy, and listen to the powerful words of Raji, Koly’s boyfriend. I know this is only a story in a book to you, but I’ve wanted to use these words as not so much a weapon, but something else altogether. These words, the ones about wanting to talk to you and not money, those are true. I want to talk to you. I want to hold and cuddle you. How can you make love to money? How can you have babies with money? In exchange, you know what else? LEt me conclude Koly’s story here.

While all this exchange between the lovers at the Yamuna River is going on, Koly thinks about her new life. One of the things Mr. Daas the employer at the sari shop says to her is, “You must not stop your work.” Koly makes a powerful promise, and I’ll never forget the things she says in response to prospective whining kids begging for attention, a demanding husband, many other things, and here’s what she says, “The dishes won’t always be so clean, the food won’t be cooked as many times, and the whining children will sit on my lap and I’ll sing to them while I work.” This woman wants to work her ass off doing embroidery, and she imagines for a few moments her daughter with a scrap of cloth in her hand, all the women in her family having embroidered. LEt me tell you what I’d embroider for you and I.

It doesn’t have to be a wedding gift. I’d take a big giant table cloth, or a banner. On it, I’d embroider your logo, a picture of you, all of you, every last detail, sitting at my desk, the keys in front of you. You’d be just playing the keys, your face would be in a peaceful angular look. IF I could create that, I would. Around you, I’d put the walls and a big room, and I’d put musical instruments, and around that I would put the Colorado landscape with mountains on one side, and an Arizona desert on another side. IF I wanted to make another scene, I’d do you and I together holding hands outside the pizza spot we went to. I’d want to walk with you hand in hand, never to let you go, to let you be with me is a joy in itself. To see you contented and happy would make me contented and happy. The thing is I have to make myself happy, but I’m truly not very happy. I never wanted to hurt you, beloved one. No matter how hard you try to stomp me out of your life, your head, your heart, I will never stop until you shut up about my so called life. For one, you would rather marry money, not women. Well, what if you married women, not money. You can’t wed a job, it can walk away from you with the drop of a hat. You can’t marry money because it can’t talk. Money isn’t able to give you kids, not unless you’re crazy enough to traffic kids in California, the adoption system being so lax in places that a UK couple literally bought two little beings and all because they paid a higher price than a local American couple. Dan the birth mother who sold those children. Beloved, I don’t want to hurt you because you don’t deserve it, and neither did I deserve physical force, emotional name calling, etc. We were better off as friends, but I’m a lover so hard to get that any guy would kill to have this heart of mine. If you want me, promise me that you will take me back after a month or two. I just want to improve communication without physically having to make you do so or you having problems with me supposedly draining the life out of you. I won’t pay any household bills unless you are willing to do so, and better you be willing to now than have a gavel and a judge force you to by rule of law and complete a sentence like you did with an ex. I don’t want to be compared to an ex wife or partner of yours. LEt me also say that I apologize for how you are feeling, but it is unnecessary for me to say that, but more than this, I apologize if I ever hurt you. I’ve cried every goddamn day for you, my tears are falling a little now as I type. Your beats are infectious. I love you so much, and I want to hold you in my arms again. Don’t close the door on me ever again, and remember that money can’t break up or renew things with you. Money can’t speak words of compassion to you, but I can. A living woman can. Raji said this, any real romantic lover would say this. I want him and others to be used as a tool, an example, a template for you to go on. When you want to talk to me, let me know. You may read this, you may not. But let me state clearly, I wil never stop loving you. Don’t make me sing Whitney Houston’s old goddamn song, well Dolly Parton did it first, but I don’t ever wanna sing that song. I want to sing the song, if I could turn back time by Cher.

IF I could turn back time, if I could find a way, I’d take back those words that had hurt you, and you’d stay. IF I could reach the stars, I’d give them all to you. And you would love me, love me, like you used to do. Why did I write these words? Because I’m so messed up crying right now. I’m so goddamn messed up crying and I just want to say that you deserve me, you deserve a better version of me. IF I could turn back time, I’d have just gotten with you five years ago and we’d have married altogether. IF I could just turn back the hands of time, you’d stay with me and we’d have our stone mansion in the cactus covered landscapes of Arizona, and we’d go to a Colorado mountain cabin in the summers and light a campfire and roast mallows and make s’mores, and we’d feast on hot dogs and canned or fresh beans, your choice, you know it’s camping so yeah. IF I could turn back the hands of time to see your smile, if I could only … only … turn back the hands of time all the way to when you were born, no forward from that, maybe the time you met your first wife, I’d have protected her, I’d have told you you were better with me, and said to her, yeah, he’s not gonna hurt you this time. IF I could turn back the hands of time, I’d have stopped your brother in his tracks, pulled the knives and guns and spears from his palm, backhanded him so he falls on the floor, screamed in his face, “How dare you attack your sibling, you vile beast.” I’d have also slapped your mother and father with orders to give you up to a loving family, period. End of story. IF I could turn back the hands of time, you would be in a loving family, hugs and kisses, goodnights and all the great things but moreover, no threat of guardianship, constant punishment, and constant abuse over things you liked. I would have been your girlfriend in high school, married you at eighteen, and we’d be a long overdone but old trusting married couple. Like John Glenn and Annie Caster, you and I would have … if I turned back the hands of time, I’d have been glad to share a playpen with you, grown up with you, fought playfully with you in a yard full of grass and green things, trees and such. We’d be like John and Annie, old and not forgotten about each other. You would have sailed aboard your rocket ships, I’d be at cooking and cleaning and perhaps making a life as an advocate for the less desired and forgotten. Like John and Annie, we’d have special things between us we could say to each other, and whether we are like them or not, it would be nice if I could die at 105 years old, having said in my final statements, “He was the best thing and was worth all the counseling.”

I love you deeply and I will never stop loving you deeply.

With love,

Your beloved one,


Author: denverqueen

My name is Beth. I'm blind from birth and enjoy the blogging atmosphere. I am a creative person, a musician, a writer, etc. This is me. Take it or leave it.

One thought on “Letter to my Beloved”

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