40 years have passed since I last wrote to you. I don’t know if you’re still alive, if the buildings of Copenhagen still get their vivid colors from your smile, if you still whirl in your weird skirts with faces of clowns on them. I wonder if the autumn still gets complimented with your liveliness.
I am writing to you because I know what those clowns meant.They were a reflection of you, of your smiling face that could lighten up anything and everything while you felt sad yourself. I always failed to see beyond your smile, and maybe that’s where I went wrong. I wanted a normal person in my life, unlike you. You were magic. You asked too much of me. You asked liveliness of me. You expected me to celebrate life. You imagined me to sing at the top of my lungs, jump off a cliff, and dream of the stars. But I was different. I was bred of expressionless faces, dirty hands, and a forced marriage. And I imagined the same fate for myself and my children. My children, oh how the word is so painful.
She had entered my life like fragrance. Her face bore no name. She was as human as anyone can be. Her smile did not radiate warmth, her face wasn’t like the sun that could lighten up the room. She did not talk of the stars, and smelt like sourdough. Her skin was soft, unlike yours, and she barely talked.
Georgia, you spent days in your studio painting a human heart. You took pleasure in making love. And I took pleasure in seeing you go crazy while you danced with the booze in your hand. Your crazy, unsynchronized dance was my escape. Sigh, that is all it was. That is all it could ever be, an escape. My reality was always different.
If you’re still reading this, I am sure you must be wondering what became of my life after I left your town that morning without informing you. I came back to my village, where my father had worked as a farmer for years. I am sorry, I never revealed my village’s name to you. I was afraid that the crazy woman you are, you’ll follow me back home. I got married to the woman in the neighborhood. But it was only after few years that her passive face became intolerable. She was infertile like a desert, and the only thing I ever wanted of her, she failed to provide.
I left her, Georgia. I left that town, my parents, and my wife, and set out on the journey of finding myself. But unfortunately, throughout this time, I was finding you, and looked in all the wrong directions. Someone we both once knew told me that they had met you, and that you did not smile anymore. You had closed down yourself and lived an ordinary life alone. You did not sing in your melodious voice, and did not tell stories through your paintings anymore. You knit, knit, and knit clothes for babies that I had promised to have with you.
Knowing this broke me, my darling. I came back to the same old town once again and resumed my life as a farmer. I am on my deathbed now. And the only person in my life that I can think of is you. I had no courage to come back to you, no courage to show you my face again. I was everything you were not, and never wanted. So I left you just like that, a broken, beautiful mess.
Forgive me, Georgia. I am writing you this apology because I ruined our lives, and destroyed your dreams. You did not deserve to lose that smile. I love you. I always loved you. But I was not brave enough.
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