Prompt Wednesday #2: From Me
Prompt: A character writes a letter to their future self and receives a reply.
Blake told me about the website during one of our marathon phone chats. (Living on opposite coasts, every few months we’d carve out time to talk and by then each of us had a bucket full of stories to share with the other.) Future Letter was one of only two or three such sites at the time. The point of such sites were left to the authors of the letters, though most of the Silicon Valley douches used them as accountability markers and reminders of their vision and goals. Barf. But, they were free. Fortunately, the process was simple enough. Merely write yourself a letter and chose a day to send it to yourself. Blake liked the novelty of the idea and said he’d written a handful of letter to himself. Mostly for fun.
Later that afternoon, I opened my laptop and found Future Letters. Within a few minutes I found myself typing words of encouragement and affirmation, then selected my days for delivery. The first letter was set to arrive exactly one year later, the next was for five years later, and the final letter will be delivered in 2025. (I think.) When I finished the task, I laughed and went about the rest of my evening in my apartment consisting of Taco Bell burritos and Netflix.
The next morning I was up early for work and the summer sun was low on the horizon having not yet cleared the tops of the oaks across the parking lot. On this particular day, I coordinated delivery routes for a team in Seattle then met a client to review an unrelated proposal. And by 2 pm I was home for a nap. Before dozing off, I remembered the letter writing and smiled. What a waste, I thought. Pure novelty. When I woke up, I was dazed, and the sun was now pouring in through my bedroom window as it did every evening in summer.
As I sat up in bed, I noticed a plain white envelope on the desk next to my bed. And then I saw my name on the envelope, hand written in big looping black ink. NIK. The handwriting looked like it was mine, but also not mine. I closed my eyes and shook my head and wondered if I was having a lucid dream. Nope, that wasn’t it. The envelope with my name was still on my desk in my apartment. And to be honest, I was freaked out by it. Had someone, a neighbor or the landlord, come while I was sleeping? I wondered. The thought made me hop out off the bed and scurry to the door. The dead bolt was locked. Hmmm. Good, I suppose. But, how? And then almost like a whisper, I coulda swore I heard someone say just open the damn envelope.
At first, I felt the letter like a kid hoping for a stack of cash on his birthday, but my fingers told be there would be nothing more than few sheets of paper inside. A proper letter, it seemed. Then I flipped the envelope open and ripped through the sealed flap, quite sloppily too. I never did master the technique. And just before pulling the papers from the sleeve, fear gripped me again. What if this is anthrax? Yes. Little ole me could be the target of an anthrax attack. Why? No idea. Just in case, I found a clean sock and held it to my mouth and face while I shimmied the letter out of the envelope. Phew. No anthrax, only a neatly folded letter. It was written on college ruled notebook paper which reminded me of high school. Then after turning the envelope upside down and giving it a good shake, I set down the sock down, unfolded the letter and began to read.
Dear Nik,
You dummy. I wouldn’t send you anthrax. Come on dude. Now, allow me explain.
One, I am you (imagine the voice of the ghost as you read the next bit) “from the future.” Two, I know you don’t believe me. So, to prove I’m you, I’ll confirm a few facts from your day yesterday.You talked to Blake. You regretted how much money you spent at Taco Bell. And you hated the new David Chang show on Netflix. And I get to my point, please stop using the phrase “the thing is.” Think it, but don’t say or write it. Ok, pumpkin? Good.
The thing is…
The next years are going to be harder and more difficult that you could possibly imagine or want to believe. I can’t tell you the important details, but you will fail, have your heart broken and go broke. Your community will dry up as all your friends get married and start having kids. Some old friendships will die. But you’ll also love like you’ve never loved before, find a way when everything seems lost, and eventually, thank God in heaven, you’ll stop watching zit popping videos.
You’ll travel too. Lose weight, then gain it all back and lose it again. Have fun with that.
And the thing is, I’m no star. Not famous or wealthy. But, I love who we become. I love what we do and why we do it. Every day I get to be loved and share love with those around me. We learned how to slow life down, and the Holy Spirit taught me how to make it simple. And Nik, I’m telling you, that’s the stuff. I’m writing you this letter because I know your struggles and temptations. I know that you can’t even define what you want because your heart is buried under shame and self-hatred. Just keep going and don’t ever give up. In a number of unspecified years, you’ll write this letter. And while you write, you’ll laugh and cry and be thankful for all the moments up to that one.
I love you, dude. You don’t really get that now, but you will.
I’ll end this letter by answering two burning questions I know you have in your heart. First, the answer is no. I didn’t include winning Power Ball numbers. It’s a fools errand. And second, she’s real. I won’t tell you her name or when you’ll meet her. But she’s real bro. To be honest, you couldn’t handle her as you are today. You’re not ready and please don’t dwell on what I just wrote about not being ready. Just keep going.
You need to know this letter will vanish in 24 hours and can’t be copied or photographed. Sorry. That’s the deal I made. What I want you to do is read this letter over and over. Read it as many times as you can, before this time tomorrow. Take it with you to work, to the toilet, where ever you go.
Don’t forget to call your mom.
Love,
You.
I reread the letter three, four, fives times in a matter of minutes. Flipped the pages over and looked inside the envelope. And then I sat and read until the sun set beyond the mountains and the western sky was pink and the light in my apartment was dim. The whole moment was as bizarre and wonderful as I’m telling it, and the questions I had. Boy. Lemme tell ya. I hated and loved myself for the effort. I hated the lack of details or certainty. But I know me. The details would’ve been chains around my soul, dragging me from one over-thought moment to the next.
I continued to sit and think as the evening faded into night, and I felt sleepy. My words, our words, shook me yet I felt safe, like being wrapped in a fuzzy Steelers blanket I stole from my sister because I know she doesn’t really like the Steelers or football. In the end, I concluded I’d given myself the best pep talk I could, and I needed to trust the future me.
Just keep going.
