A Love Letter to You.

This is to say thank you.
Thank you for reading what I write. Thank you for the validation it brings. Because it’s more than the validation of a number or a notification.
It’s you being here with me.
And that’s all anyone is ever looking for.I like you too, you know. I like how your eyes look after you’ve been crying; from laughter or otherwise, all red-rimmed but clear, like you can see more now than maybe you did before.  I like your nose, how you’ve grown it in the centre of your face. I like how you mispronounce words sometimes, but you think that trying is more important than how failing may feel. You’re right. And I like that about you too. I like how sometimes you sit down or fall down or feel down and think you may never get up again, but you do. I like that there’s something that you really love, something that makes you know what they mean when they say ‘it’s dear to my heart’. Writing has always been that thing to me, and you being here has helped me not be so afraid to say that, instead of whispering it, when no one was listening. I like that everyday your future is finding you, wherever you are. And I like that, somehow, we are connected in that, even though some days it’s only across this technologsea. I like that we can make each other feel less alone, because we’re not, really. You’re here and I’m here.
Thank you.

I appreciate it.
With love,
Alice Andersen.

Three Hundred & Sixty Five – Days at Home: Week 33

Baking day 1 + 2 + 3 / Afternoon walks in her favourite shoes; always on the wrong feet. / Oh, hello to you! The bulbs I planted in April, arriving just before Spring. So cheerful. / Quilts, embroidery, and a well stickered sewing box. / My stylist making some last-minute adjustments to my outfit. Or trying to get at all the Lego that he keeps in my handbag. / Sitting on the back deck, waiting for Summer. / Knitting, knitting, knitting.

Love is a reciprocal torture. – Marcel Proust.

There’s a lot of whispering happening over there. I’m only as suspicious as I ever am. Four years of low-level torture has built up a surprising tolerance for these things.

Slowly, Mabel emerges from behind the couch and crawls on her little pink belly across the floor in front of me, to where the dog is lying in a small patch of sun.

‘You got any stored, Mae?’, Theo hisses at her, peeking out from around the armchair.

She reaches into her leggings and pulls out a small Phillips head screwdriver.

‘OPERATION TIME!’, she yells.

The dog lifts his head slightly. He looks at me with brief resignation, and goes back to sleep.

I almost join him.