Dear Charlie

Illustration by Anthony Liang.

Dear Charlie,

I am in my third year of university. I’ll graduate next year. Some of my friends are graduating in only a few months. High school is a distant memory now, a past life in a country across the ocean with people I haven’t seen in years. I scroll past their posts on social media or look at the date and remember it used to be their birthday. 

It's almost Christmas here and I’m drinking hot chocolate in our living room, writing to you under the glow of the Christmas tree lights. I keep staring for a bit at the pink and yellow and red and green ribbons tied to each limb. I’m in a new country. With people I didn’t know last December. The year’s almost over again.

Last week, I hosted a Christmas dinner with rolls and mashed potatoes and gravy, and people came and ate and laughed. It’s exam season here and, as you’ve probably learned by now, college students survive off of mac ‘n’ cheese, ramen, and coffee, so I decided to feed them. At least the ones that welcomed me here with kind smiles and warm invitations. You know, I think I participated in life just a little bit more. We have those big and important conversations, like you at the Big Boy. We start at politics and go through mental health, guys, sex, and food recipes, to end up laughing about how we slipped on ice and set off the fire alarm the other day. 

We’re adults now too, with our own apartments, our own money and no curfew. It’s great. But we’ll still call our parents when we don’t know how much we owe for utilities or if the cooked chicken that’s been sitting in the fridge for a week is safe to eat… Most people I know are relatively close with their parents. Maybe so am I. In a way. But you once asked whether it’s better for a father to be close with their daughter or to make sure she has a better life than him, and I still don’t know. I’ll always be grateful that my father chose the latter, and I’ll always miss what could’ve been if he’d chosen the former. I think one’s a selfless act and the other just means we’re human. But when life “gets too much,” as you say, I don’t call him. So, which one’s better? 

I grieve quietly. A sip of hot chocolate. A calming breath. I remember the last Christmas before my mom died. And when I hear my grandmother reminiscing about her husband passing away many winters ago, and when a friend tells me they’re not spending the holiday with their parents, and when my roommate mentions how she was too young to remember any Christmases before her mother was gone… We listen to “Linger” by the Cranberries. At least her father gave her something to remember her mother by.

The other day, I was sitting outside and my cigarette kept lighting only halfway. So, if Bob was right and someone was thinking of me, I hope they reach out. I was probably thinking of them too… I tend to think a lot. 

Anyway, I won’t take up any more of your time. I hope you’re doing well. Merry Christmas!

Love always,

Alissa