ghosts in the garden

Dear Scarlett,

Yesterday was Jeremy’s birthday. He was hoping you’d call, or at least text. I told him that you were probably busy, since I saw your instagram. I hope the art museum was fun.

We celebrated like always. A giant sheet of plastic, dish soap, and a hose. This year we didn’t have to shut off the water between turns. Aunt Jackie made me promise to pay the water bill, but she got us cupcakes from that shop on Main Street. Jeremy’s mom still doesn’t know that he drinks, so we waited until the sun went down. The old shed out back felt a lot bigger. Probably because you weren’t there. Our names carved into the wood were starting to fade, so I went over them again. Just for good measure.

I had a dream the other night where I went to visit you in the city. You took me to all your favorite coffee shops, and to the little bookstore that you love. We found matching bookmarks. Everything was so colorful and loud. Your friends were really cool—they liked Jane Eyre, too. It all felt so real. 

I hope that your classes slow down a bit so that I can come for real. Boston seems so fun. We could go to the aquarium, or have lunch on the Boston Commons. I’ve even saved up money for the train. Any time is good for me, really. You know how the local schools are. I probably had a harder time in senior year calculus (Mr. Dennis says hi, btw. We went to lunch a few weeks ago). I can’t wait to tell you all about the fiasco between Kate and those girls from South High. You’ve missed so much. I went to the lake by myself the other day. Well, sort of. I drove all the way there but it felt wrong to get out of the car alone. I wish you’d come home. The train is only an hour, but it seems you can’t be bothered. I can’t help but feel like I’ve done something wrong. 

Springtime was the hardest. The dandelions bloomed, then grew old and ashen. You missed all of it. I missed you. We used to spend hours in that field, blowing away white tufts until our lungs could burst. This year, those seeds were bullets. Shots to the heart, point blank. I cried about it. Jeremy reminded me that they were just weeds. But weeds are fickle. I’m praying that we aren’t. I want you to know that I’m still standing beneath your waterfall. The world is blurry through that watery curtain, but it’s slowing to a trickle and the sun hurts my eyes. I can’t bear to think about the day when the water runs dry. Your phantom laughs follow me, whenever I make a joke. Everyone else’s laughs are too quiet. It’s like a piece of me is missing. Nostalgia doesn’t feel warm anymore. Neither do you. Please write back.

Betty Jeanne

Dear Betty Jeanne,

Sorry my response has been so delayed. I kept forgetting to buy stamps. 

My life has been a whirlwind these last few months. My course load is heavy, but my writing professor says I have a true talent for screenwriting! I got an internship at a radio station, which has been helpful in learning about sound design—you would not believe the difference music makes in setting a scene. I almost fell in love and then fell out of love just as fast. Avery and Liz kept telling me I was insane, but you know I can’t resist blue eyes.  

Right now most of my free time is spent writing a screenplay for a short film I’m making with Liz and Juliet. The film starts with a little girl and her imaginary friend playing together in a meadow—actually, it’s a lot like the one by your house. The two girls spend all their time in the park daydreaming about their futures, picking flowers and praying their wishes come true. I’m still working out the details of the middle, but it ends with her in another park, only this time she’s grown up. She’s walking through the Boston Commons when she sees a little girl blowing on a dandelion. Memories of being that little girl, wishing with her imaginary friend, wondering if she’ll ever get what she has now, wash over her. It’s been so long since she last thought of her old friend. She can’t even picture her face anymore. It’s bittersweet; she’s nostalgic for the innocence of childhood, but she would never choose to go back. 

The last frame zooms in on the imaginary friend watching her friend from outside the park. She never grew up, never got the chance to have a future. She misses it. Everything.

It’s got me thinking about the nature of dreams, relationships, memory. Does it ever drive you crazy that there’s no way to ever love something with your entire being without it eventually hurting you? Nothing is permanent. The higher you float the further you inevitably fall, fantastic highs always crashing to bitter lows. 

I think that’s what friendship is. Choosing to bare your heart to another person, to see their soul and know it by name, to embrace the joy of being recognized completely. Doing all of this knowing that it will only ever be temporary, knowing the loss of something so beautiful is a leech on the pulse of your life. And you never know when it’s going to be over until you look around one day and suddenly realize: your best days together are behind you. It slips away without you noticing; grains of sand blowing from your palm until your hands are turned up towards god, empty, like a prayer that can’t get through to heaven. You can still feel the shape of it, see it lingering in your dreams, but a memory will always feel more real than the taste of their name in your mouth. 

We all carry ghosts of the people we used to know. We choose to be haunted because it’s easier than staring the graves of the people we once loved in the eye knowing we killed them. You have to let go of resurrection. 

When will we learn to surrender?

Faithfully Yours,
Scarlett

Anna Helldorfer (she/her) is a sophomore at Lincoln Center, majoring in English with a concentration in Creative Writing! She grew up in the suburbs of northern Virginia, but New York has always had her heart. She’s an avid reader of anything fantastical, and you can usually find her on the couch watching re-runs of RuPaul’s Drag Race. She’s so happy to get to share her work with a community that shares her same passion for art and writing:)

Isabel Daniel (she/they) is the 2020-2021 Editor in Chief of The Comma. They are an English major with a concentration in Creative Writing and a minor in Women, Gender, and Sexuality studies. They are a Lincoln Center student graduating in the Fall of 2021. Isabel writes mainly poetry and short fiction with an interest in magical realism and comedy. When they are not writing or running their beloved club, Isabel can be found drinking potions, making bad jokes, and scouring thrift stores for clown figurines.