Message in a Bottle

If you’ve found this, probably the first thing you’ll want to know is why I resorted to sending a message in this fashion. The people around me don’t see me, don’t hear me, don’t notice me. I get a passing hello from people I see every day. I get lectures on finances over the phone from my husband. I check my e-mail 30 times a day to see if there is anything real there; usually there are only e-mails from people I’ve never met before asking for tips on housebreaking a dog or spam from people like Delicious Activation, who want to sell me V!@gra or V@l!um. So in a sense, it makes just as much sense to write this note, stuff it into a bottle that I will then seal and toss into the river. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. Just like Delicious Activation and the friendish person who’s trying to housebreak her new dachshund.

And maybe the next thing you want to know about me is who I am. That’s a good question. I’m not really sure how to answer it. I can tell you what I am—a wife, a sister, a daughter, a pianist, a writer, a reader, an observer. I can tell you how I feel—sleepy, headachy, depressed, lonely, empty, hungry, despairing. I think, though, that the only way you can know who I am is to study me. Watch me, observe me, hear me, listen to me, ask me, capture me.

James Barrie, in Peter Pan, wrote of the secret kiss that lay in one corner of Mrs. Darling’s mouth, the kiss that no one could claim, the kiss that maddeningly remained aloof. That kiss was there for only one person, and if he did not claim it, it would remain unclaimed. Mr. Darling kissed his wife. Wendy, Michael, and John kissed their mother. There were kisses aplenty, and she gave them liberally to those she loved. But there was always that one kiss that remained untouched. There is something deep within me, like unto that kiss, that no one has touched yet. No one has discovered it. I cannot name it—only when it is filled can I understand and define it. And it’s that thing within me that impels me to write this letter, to make this desperate attempt to touch one other person. Perhaps you have such a place deep within your soul that is calling out for contact. Maybe you are the one person who can fill my emptiness; maybe I am the one person who can fill your emptiness; maybe somehow the randomness of our meeting will actually help make us whole.

But how will you know me? I can describe myself—round, pale-skinned, heavy dark hair, round green eyes and a too-small full-lipped mouth. Has that told you anything? I could tell you where I live, and how to find me, but that still tells you nothing. Unless you know me, you cannot know me.

I suppose I am, then, sending this message into the world with as much vain hope as a shipwrecked man. Hope is everything, because it is hope that keeps me alive, keeps me moving, keeps the blood running through my longing body, keeps the dreams filling my nights and haunting my days, keeps the guilt from destroying me, keeps the emptiness from consuming me. When the hope is gone then I am gone and there is nothing left. All there is is hope.