Caroline,

I heard today you were getting married.

This is not a congratulations letter. I don’t understand why people respond like that to marriages. It’s not a prize, it’s not an achievement. You haven’t won your fiancé in an award show. Hopefully. What I truly want, first, is to wish you all the sweetest moments and loveliest adventures.

This is not a shaming letter, either. It’s perfectly understandable why you wouldn’t invite me to your wedding. We haven’t spoken in seven years. But when I ran into your mother and she told me you were getting married, I was instantly surrounded by multiple clouds of memories, and one in particular flashed before my eyes like one of the dear books we cherished so much. And I had to ask you.

Do you remember Sunday?

You grew up in a very strict Catholic family who saved their Sundays for prayer and family time, which you were quite comfortable with. Until the day you weren’t. You were not allowed to leave the house on Sundays, or use the phone for that matter. So we saw each other every single day of the week, but Sunday.

And things rolled like that for years. And we got used to it. But when we were fourteen, in what your mother chose to believe was a common rebellious teen act not to be repeated again, you showed up at my door right after lunch on a sunny but breezy August Sunday. She was right about the not-to-be-repeated thing, after all you were underage and had to follow her rules. But I knew it was a roar of freedom and just the beginning of the display of what would be my favourite personality for years to come.

 

I asked you where you wanted to go for such a special day out. You said you had never been anywhere but home and church every Sunday ever since you were born, so it would all be new to you, no matter where we went. And we ended up in our usual spot by the broken bench at the city park.

 

We had absolutely no clue what our lives would be like when we grew up. Mostly because we thought we were already adults and life was going to figure itself out like it did to every grown-up in the planet. But there were small things we felt resolutely sure about, both things we wanted and things we didn’t want. That day, you decided we should carve them in the broken bench.

 

The first topic was career, which now bewilders me. We sure got smart very early. All the other girls our age were trading books for love letters, whereas the only love letters we got were in the books we read. Jane Austen and the Brontë Sisters had their names carved in that bench, too. You weren’t certain about what you wanted to do for a living, but it had to involve music. I had a rational plan and a dream situation, both of which involved writing. So we carved a musical note and a pen.

It’s kind of funny that we ended up getting the same job, although so geographically far and so stylistically different. You write about your beloved music in the city. I use music to do my beloved writing in the country. You see, it has always been the small things in our endless similarities that set us apart. Still is.

 

You laughed at me when I said I wanted to have a big family. For you, life was too short to be stuck with children. The carvings on that matter might still count for something, if we pretend mine was yours and vice versa. Can you imagine me married with children? Actually, you probably can, seeing as we haven’t been in touch since our teenage years. I still can’t believe you of all people are settling down. Then again, my own change of heart can easily explain yours.

 

I wanted fame, you wanted money. I wanted to be the wisest, you wanted to look the youngest. Both of us wanted to marry Colin Firth, but for all I know we stuck to guys our age. We might have gotten some of these things wrong, but they were mostly right. And, for some reason, we never talked about it again. Maybe deep down we didn’t want to ruin the magic of that special Sunday.

 

I have no idea if the carvings are still there. Hell, I don’t even know if the broken bench continues to uselessly inhabit that park. But the wood was just a symbol. The marks were forever carved in my mind. I would be lying if I said I think about it every day. But here and there, maybe three or four times a year, I catch myself remembering that conversation and looking for that girl in this grown-up body of mine.

Your mother will probably have forgotten running into me in the airport by the time she arrives to your reception, but I spent the entire flight thinking about you. Thinking about that day. And I know your personality would still figure amongst my favourites had we remained in touch.

You are getting married on a Sunday.

All the best,

May.