The thing that bothers me the most: why wasn’t I at your high school graduation? Was I truly so self-absorbed that I would not even remember what kept me from the ceremony? Why don’t I know the names of girls you would say were your girlfriends? We share Christ, but I’m not really certain of when you submitted your heart to the Lord. I don’t know how you like your coffee. Why did we fight so much and hurt each other when we were young? Why didn’t I reach out to be your friend when you needed one? Why do I think I know the answers to your questions—even when you aren’t asking? Is it possible to love someone you may not know enough? I’ve let you down you in so many ways. I’ve been selfish and exalting. I’ve been cruel and purposefully scary. Now, we’re all grown up; I can’t tell you why I see vapid memories lacking in substance, all I have are glimpses of the person I think you are. I’m not sure what motivates you. I’d like to say we are close, and sometimes it feels as though it’s true. But I push, and you slip away. I squeeze and you disappear. Please tell me that when you see me stumbling and struggling toward connection you appreciate the attempt, although it might be rough. Maybe I’m making a lot from a little and it might surprise you that these words make up my letter to you, but it’s what I have. I’ve wounded and tossed aside. I’ve shattered and possibly scarred. What’s to be done for two people who love each other, but don’t often find the words to make it more than an obscure certainty? Why can’t I always make it all better? Why can’t I punish those who hurt you? Why couldn’t I tell myself to be there, always; to never let you down; to forget any injury done? Does it bother you, if I fail you so many times and yet, I say I love you?