Dear Emily, I’m leaving you.

Love e-mails, unlike love letters, are not to be found in my life. I’m wondering whether there are any out there, whether anyone has written a love e-mail. I think, and this might be a bias brought on by my age, that a love e-mail could never compare to a love letter. That it wouldn’t carry the same weight, that it couldn’t possibly ever hold the same amount of emotion, same intensity.

I do agree that it is in what’s written rather than how it’s sent, but still.

***

Dear Emily,

I’m leaving you. You, who could have been born anywhere, yet
it was where I lived. You, who could have worn anything, yet it
was that green summer dress that haunts my dreams to this very
day. You, who could have said “No”, yet you said “Yes”. You who I
wish I never met, for were I to have lived alone, to never have
seen you cross the street that day, I would now be leaving other
things.

I would be leaving my last breath as a heavy burden on those who
pulled the triggers. I would be leaving my favorite memory of countless
falling yellow-ruby leafs. I would be leaving my body to the scientists,
or their cousins the worms. I would be leaving my favorite river, my
most visited streets, and my travel worn shoes. I would be leaving a
world filled with wonder and beauty. Yet, I’m leaving you.

I’m leaving you dear Emily, because none of the things I’ve written,
no, not even my very breath matter in comparison. None of them make
this as unbearable as you. None of them would make me wish for a way
out of things to come. None of them keep me up nights imagining myself
escaped and calling to them from the street. No Emily, I’m leaving you,
and nothing else.

***

That was the letter I came across not too long ago. A letter I had written to my wife, when I was still very young. As you may have guessed, I was to be executed for things I don’t remember. It was something political, arbitrary, and not at all important here. What matters is that I found that letter. It, written on a paper folded twice, and now yellow with age, held a text composed of barely legible letters and three words especially dear to me. The words: “wish”, “triggers”, and “them” are blurred, the ink caused to run by the tears of my dear Emily, who was unable to stop them all from falling.

And so I wonder, if at that time e-mail was available, and had I sent her that text via the internet, would it have held three of her tears? I think not, and that I think is my point.

But it is very hard for an amnesiac to reminisce. I do apologize if I’ve caused some to think less of e-mails, I’m sure they offer just as great an experience for those who employ them for such matters.

Jakob Lint