The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky is my favorite book. Forever. An epistolary novel, it chronicles the life of Charlie throughout his freshman year in high school. He writes to “Dear Friend”, who is never identified in the novel, and at some point we as readers don’t care anymore. Charlie is clearly revealing his truest self – authentic thoughts and feelings to this person that even he doesn’t know very well.
I have a few friends to whom I write letters to on a regular basis. It doesn’t matter who they are to anyone but me. There are elements of these letters between us that ring truer than I could ever muster to put forth in person. Something about the false anonymity of written words makes this possible – even with, and perhaps especially with, friends (or family) with whom we cannot bear to share our dark or fanciful places face to face.
In light of this awareness, I will be printing excerpts from our letters and titling them “Dear Friend”. My hope is to bring pieces of truth about my life, and those around me, to this page – this place of our truest selves.
This first letter is written about my Aunt Betsy. I have written about this amazing woman in previous posts. "Aunty B" has literally saved me many times. She has carried all of my stories. I imagine she will again. My mom passed away two years ago, and I have carried such weight with me ever since. I wrote this letter on New Year's Day of this year. The girl “Sara” that I refer to is the main character in my novel. Sara is stuck at a bus stop with her mother. The following excerpt is part of the lengthy letter I sent to a "Dear Friend".
Dear Friend ~
I've been jotting down notes here and there - only really pulling my thoughts together at the end of a long drive. This is important to me. As you have done on many occasions, I trust that you will treat it as such. :)
[…] New Year's Eve, Betsy and I spent the entire day together. Many heartfelt and hilarious conversations; many adventures. One errand over adventure was dealing with my filthy car. I opted for a ridiculously expensive mega wash that would take about three days. We waited inside with orange painted cement benches, two vending machines, and a pay phone to keep us company. And while we sat on one of the benches, waiting for my car to get washed, I finally told the only story left to be told. "I have so much guilt about mom." We talked about blame and regret. Resentment and fear. We talked about what forgiveness looks like.
I drove 160 miles to be with my aunt Betsy today (New Year's Day). The circumstances were very different, but once again, we wound up sitting on a concrete bench. This time, out in the sun and in front of a huge beautiful fountain, we laughed loudly and whispered carefully. And I bought "A Charlie Brown Christmas" in Blu-ray. (Actually, I had literally just picked it up when your text came thru. Sort of a nice touch.)
Driving back into the city, I considered the benches where Betsy and I talked and waited over the last two days. That orange bench - at the car wash - was important not only for my life story, but also, as a compass for Sara's narrative.
I thought about Sara, sitting on the bench at the bus stop, waiting for an hour, and telling the only story left to be told. I heard Sara's blame and regret. Resentment and fear. And I wondered what forgiveness might begin to look like. For her.
Mare
