A Letter to Emily Lucas.

Dear Miss Lucas,

I want you to know, first and foremost, that I am safe.
I have taken great precaution to make certain of that; possibly the final request you'd ever give me.
Things are often nebulous here, and even now the possibility of scrutiny or repercussion are very real and dangerous simply because of the nature of my work, but frankly, I am no longer scared and I no longer provide the means for anyone to sincerely question or criticize me. In fact, everyone seems rather impressed.

I also want you to know that I know you're out there, somewhere.
That I always knew.
That's not to say I doubted you, nor your ability to vanish completely.
You're my teacher, and in my eyes, probably the greatest witch to have ever lived; so I know it's well within your abilities, to say the very least.

I remember, though, when curious happenings were occurring and they all seemed like they were in your handwriting. After having written you a letter with no postage left in Basic - D.T. Horvath shows up and asks me if I need a stamp. After bouncing six locations, on my last day in Virginia, your letter arrives as I'm literally turning in my issued sheets. Someone is transgender and comes to me for help, and inexplicably, I am able to start them on their lifelong journey, because you have given me those particular tools.

I asked you, "How are you doing these things?" and you'd said, "It's so hard not to reach out when you're trying so hard to be reached."

You're trying so hard to be reached, and I can feel it. I know it - you're okay.
I just did. It wasn't until Leigh casually inquired that you'd apologized for something in an offhanded remark that there were 'Hard Evidence' to support my knowledge, but again, I knew.

Part of me wants to run to you; to ask you if you're doing well. To hug you, and dust you off, and tell you how beautiful and splendid, and intellectual, and talented you always were and continue to be. Part of me wants to buy you chocolates and flowers and bits of clothing and gifts.
I don't know why - part of me will always long to spoil you. It's just a residual thing.
Thinking of an old love, perhaps. An apple for teacher, perhaps. I'm not certain.

But I've been suppressing that as of late.
I feel like, above all else, I needlessly complicate you.
Beautiful, fascinating you.

So, I do what I do best. I talk and I ramble about you to anyone who will listen.
I talk of the greatest teacher I've ever had, who met me in a time I truly needed it.
I talk of one who has survived on so little, and contributed so much - the rose growing in an ashtray.
The person who my longing to document taught me to draw.
The opener of my perspective.
My collapsed - but unrepentant and beautiful - former intimacy.
What a person - what a friend.

I just wanted to let you know I'm okay.
That I don't want to complicate you anymore.
That I appreciate everything.
And that I will continue reaching out.

If you do need something, please don't hesitate.
I'll keep things short in interest of simplicity.
And I'll tell you a couple portions of this in person.

Until then, I will simply continue to enjoy Passepied, and Mangore's Waltz.
And your favored Campanella. And other beautiful things I'd have never discovered if not for you.

With love,
Meena