Note to an 11-y/o Ian

Mr. Casanova,

That is how you signed your long-form poems dedicated entirely to ‘the wooing of E.’, who would not let herself be wooed, alas!, by the serif cursive bold epics printed on brownish stationery you even took the effort to singe at the fringes with your father’s lighter for dramatic effect.

Last Sunday reminded me of you. Paris was on fire and my wife (yes, married now) and I visited IKEA. You would’ve had a poem about Paris being on fire, I told my wife. And I proceeded to tell her about how you had this dream of a Tatooine-style bedroom that never came to anything but a visit to IKEA with your mom and coming home with mirrors.

Let me tell you this:

The bravery it took to hand E. those poems of yours is exactly the thing. There on the frontline of our youth holding a little manuscript tied together with string you found in your father’s toolbox.

It is where the hammer hits the stone and sparks are made.

Sometimes be the hammer, sometimes be the stone and sometimes be the spark.

Oh and I found your blogs today, they’re so fucking perfectly tragic I love you wee man,

35-y/o Ian