DEAR ME,

By far I have descended into details. And a greater number of things that have not satisfied me like the rains do the Harmattan.

Maybe, one day I will evince symptoms of patience, and adjust my expectations. I am restless in my movements, often a solitary wanderer in the company of men. By accounts of my resolve, I wish you were bold enough to be yourself, and not change so often that we lost track of who we were, and our place in this world.

A reminder of all the hellos you refused to let float from your lips, fear had propelled us to think that people were cruel; in the many ways that love was kind. We stayed in the dark corners of nowhere without hope, without warmth.

Life of solace. Dear me of an immediate past era, you were strong, handling each challenge with grace, as life gambled your emotions against thistles and thorns.

I am proud of you, and who you have ascended to become. When you were nine, you descended in the scale of what is termed gentility – an idea that was entirely novel to you. You proposed to your crush who was a college freshman. I felt your courage sublime in the spaces of rejection, bursting with a million questions.