Maus Represented: Letters Unsent

November 30, 2012  23:00

I was thinking of you today, and the memories we’ve created; the times we’ve stayed up too late and stood in the cold too long. I remember talking about the future and that we dreamt our schemes could change the world and that our words could heal broken hearts and comfort those lost along the road.

I know we haven’t talked in a while now, and now those moments seem so long away that I wonder if we’ve met before. It’s as though I am looking at an old photograph showing children playing in field, and their faces can’t be seen, but the field is green and there’s the promise of a full harvest, yet, in the sky, are clouds that threaten rain as though foretelling some devastation.

You never liked the heart-felt things, but now I feel the need to write you and remind you of these moments. Especially of our writings, because we made a promise to co-author books someday and to change the world of literature; I’m holding you to that. I remember one night, I think the first time I came to your house, you showed me your pile of notebooks and those loose papers and your folders of ideas. Poems and stories and observations; we spent hours going through them and counting pages, arguing about whose pile was bigger.

I was happy when we decided to go to my house and see for certain; mine was larger by twenty pages, though you had more complete story ideas. I’m not sure why I was thinking about that today or why I remember the numbers:

We were both fourteen and during the summer of 2006 you had thirty-two pages of poetry or outlines, seven novel ideas, and ten short stories contained in two, seventy-five page notebooks, and ten folders containing ninety-eight loose-leaf pages, plus twenty pages of observations, two napkins and restaurant place-mat. Totaling a score of two-hundred and sixty-five pages, two napkins and a place-mat filled to various degrees.

I had thirty-seven pages of poetry or outlines, two novel ideas and nine short stories contained in two notebooks and seventeen folders containing one hundred and twenty-nine loose-leaf pages, plus forty-two pages of observations, a piece of cardboard and cloth napkin. Totaling two-hundred and forty-six pages, a piece of cardboard and a fancy napkin filled to various degrees.

I remember was I was disappointed for the loss, but I’m certain the folders made my pile seem bigger.

That’s why I started thinking about you in the first place; I’m trying to organize my folders and I’m looking at some of the poems from around that time and I’m remembering all the poems I wrote about you and for you, which I always showed to you though I said they were for someone else. I wonder what you’d have thought had you known the truth and what you think now that you know it (if you remember how I remember).

Well, it’s getting late now and I imagine this enough for a letter at the moment.

I hope all is well with you,

Your friend,

Harold Maus


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