Hello Strangers. 

Years ago, I lived with my family in the desert. My uncle, who lived in Arkansas, passed away. He was young. He was my favorite. I hardly knew him, a common theme with my extended family. I don’t think anyone realized how much I loved him, and no one really understood my reaction when he died. Around the time of his funeral, I was sitting on the bough of a tree, the sun shining, a breeze blowing, and I was talking to him. Saying goodbye, I think. Trying to make it final, so maybe I’d stop saying it over and over again like I had been. I told him I loved him and maybe that I’d miss him—I don’t remember—and all of a sudden I heard a voice in my head that sounded kind of like him, but forced. Just a bit wrong. In the moment I truly thought it was him saying goodbye. I don’t know about the voice, or what I saw next, but I looked up and he was standing in the sunlight, white shirt, his cowboy hat and boots. He smiled. And I smiled. And then he was gone. 

Well that was Oklahoma and Arkansas, but we went home after the funeral, and every night I would sit on the stone wall outside our house and watch the lights of the city begin to blink on while the sky changed from blood orange to a lilac mixed with smoke. I’d pray. Have make-believe conversations with my uncle.  And he’d sit there silently on the wall. 

All those years ago and no one ever knew. I guess I never communicated that. And no one ever asked what I was doing.

It’s years in the future, and I’m asking a friend their opinion on my taste in men. (One in particular, fictional, embarrassingly.) She said that I live life as a “good girl” and subconsciously I wanted someone dangerous as a way to explore my dark side. And I was struck by…just how wrong that was. (Now it’s not her job to psychoanalyze me, she’s my friend not a therapist, but still. I was very surprised.) I ended up watching ‘Delivery Man’ with Vince Vaughn a little bit later and it clicked. I was looking for and found something very specific in all of these people, and once I figured it out it made perfect sense. But apparently, I had failed to communicate what I wanted in a way anyone understood, ever. And I began to realize that people had different perceptions of me than what I thought I was putting into the world.

I can think of a million instances where I’ve been misinterpreted and misunderstood. People didn’t understand what I wanted or what I was trying to say. Why I cared about something or someone. That I was angry, or that I was in love. People don’t always understand. This is one of the first things children learn in life, and one of the first things we relearn as adults. Which brings me to writing.

Writing allows me to build my own world where I can say what I mean to say. I’ve struggled with the difference between Mabel and this space, versus the way that I am in real life. But the truth is that this is so much closer to who I want to be. And this is where I am able to say what I want to say. 

Right here, right now, you and I are sitting at the kitchen table. It’s dark, and smoke’s coming from the chimney and creatures that don’t exist come to visit me. Sometimes my cottage is more real, and there’s a garden in the back, and I think about tips I can give so we can both garden better. Sometimes I’m a ninety-year-old woman at the edge of the world, and you’re a battle-scarred mercenary, but you know my house, and I know your silhouette in the darkness. I don’t really know who you are, I can’t see you. But can you see us? 

This is how writing frees us, giving us the ability to say what we mean. And by the way, thank you for reading about my uncle and the stone wall. I’ve wanted to tell someone for a very long time. That’s all for now.

However you see me, Strangers,

–Mabel

Oh, P.S., I realized that my slogan is “a window in the dark, a cup of tea waiting in the kitchen,” and I’ve really failed to give you all any recipes. If you were here, I’d make food, so I’ve got a soup recipe coming, and after that some springtime desserts. Much love.