This is just to say I burned the pumpkin pie . . .

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Hey, this is just to say I burned the pumpkin pie we planned to bake together. I also didn’t follow a recipe, and so the filling came out soggy. The pie might be the only thing that would have turned out better if I hadn’t left you. You know how I am in the kitchen. All I do well is open cupboards and not close them. How could you include “poor math skills” but forget “reckless baker” in that list of flaws you posted online? The funny sad horrible list you made and that you thought was about me. 

I don’t make lists because I’m not organized in the way you are. I leave wet towels on the floor, make crumbs, lose socks, and misplace my glasses. I’m currently missing my watch by the way. The one so old it was stuck three hours, three minutes, and one day ahead. (Do you know where it is?) You were best at finding the things I was looking (not that hard) for. But, while you tidied and used your shiny measuring cups, the kind and clear words I sought to arrange with you stayed embedded in your pride (fear). 

And this is just to say that fear (disguised as pride) is a realm in which no masterpieces of love have ever been created.

But none of this is to say I don't remember the time you told me you’d never sleep until you knew my hands and feet were warm. We were camping up in Nederland in one sleeping bag. You put my hands in your armpits and my feet in a hat. Later, I sat up and snacked on a block of cheese. You laughed and looked at me with curious eyes that, in little time, became thirsty. And thirstier. Come here, come closer, you’d say. Closer, closer, closer. I deserve it the way I want it. Now. This is the right way to to do it. You’re being ridiculous.   

Boy, it became like trying to breathe, speak, sleep underwater. 

You can’t. 

So I surface. 

And without a recipe, I write.