An Old Sad Song

Matt Smith,

A person creates their mate in their mind. I truly believe that every 20- or 30- something on this planet can remember a time in their childhood when they knew exactly what they were looking for in that One Person. Whether they dreamt of a blushing blonde, or a blue-eyed boy, or a white knight -- they know now what they were looking for then, and they've pretty much resigned themselves to the fact that no matter how long and strenuous the search, they're never going to find exactly what it was that they were looking for in the first place.

It's a sad thing to think on. And maybe I'm just a little sad myself tonight.

When I was a little girl, I remember thinking that the person I spend my days with would be an artist and he would be rich. As I got older, I realized that those two traits aren't usually the best of friends. So, I settled into thoughts of a writer, a reader, a thinker -- someone with a generous sense of humor and an honest smile. I wanted a musician, a movie buff. Someone who could see beyond the surface of everyday sorts of things -- not the least of which would be me. (I suppose I always thought that I wasn't much to look at, but I knew that I was smart. Maybe I thought that it took a pretty special type of person to see that deep into who I was.)

I remember thinking that, when I got older, things would inevitably fall into place. I would be walking down the street one evening, dressed in my little black dress after just having come from the theatre, and some tall, rich, tuxedo-clad gentleman with long, beautiful hair would pop out from behind a pillar and ask for my name.

Well, I was partly right.

He is tall. And I suppose it was evening.

But the thing is, I did get what I was looking for. It's hard to explain, I guess. But the person I was looking for... well, he's the type of person who -- well, collects the stickers that you find on produce. Who conducts an impromptu funeral and burial for a dead bird in his backyard by reading "Grass" by Carl Sandburg. Who honks at crows he sees on the interstate. Who tells me stories about, well, whatever I want... even if they're a little silly and involve a woman named Dottie. Who finds meaning in the way I eat my pancakes. Who appreciates the fact that I get a little crazy when I'm left alone for too long. Who can amuse passing tourists just by being himself.

He is the kind of person who reminds me, every day, that I exist. That I live out loud. That I have worth. That I am loved.

And he never has to speak a word.

Love,
Meredith