Letters

My parents received a letter that was addressed to me in their care.
Because they're my parents; they opened it.
It was a letter to myself that I had been forced to write at last years graduation ceremony for the service position I held for 10 months.
I sent it to my parents because I wasn't sure where I would be in a year.

Because I'm me; I didn't take it very seriously.
I called myself "darling" and "princess," and (much to my dads unjustified dismay) I used the word shit. Several times.
I did record some wishes for myself. A wish that 12 months after writing the letter I would not have yet failed yet in my California Girl dream and returned home to Boston. A wish that I would find a fulfilling career. So probably not the bakery that I work at now.
I did not mention any dreams about where I might be living.
But from where I write these words; in an old messy apartment with flickering electricity, sinking bathroom floor, and permanently stained kitchen- this is probably not what I had in mind.
But it is in a beautiful town on a beautiful street and I can walk to a job that pays my affordable rent.

The short scrawling note says nothing about romance.
It makes no mention of my heart, neither then nor now.
A year ago, I had no clue that in the same week that my parents called so my mother could read my own words to me over the phone (which was an eerie experience to say the least) I would wake up on a day off, go for a walk to get myself some coffee, and then sit down to write another letter.
A letter to someone else.
Because I'm still me; I express my emotions through letters and words.
And though I certainly didn't see it coming then, I am in love now.
But I would never want to send a letter to warn the version of me who sat in the reception hall, uncomfortable in her business casual clothes, rolling her eyes and (most likely) a stray curl between two fingers.
I would never want to ruin the surprise of what else was waiting for me here on the West coast.
Someone wonderful, and smart and funny and a terrific pain in the butt.
Someone to tell secrets to and laugh with. Someone who lets me sing into the breeze as the world passes by through the cars open windows.
I won't write myself another letter to open in a year.
I won't ask myself about whats changed and whats stayed the same.
I don't want to know that shit.
I don't want to now what comes next.
Because I have always been me; and I did something to deserve him.
And I can't wait to see what comes next.