Dear all you honeys, wild things, sweet things, dearies,
I’ll tell you a secret. I’ve got this sweater. It’s big and it’s green and it’s polyester. It used to belong to my grandpa, but I borrowed it four summers ago and he never got it back. I’ve worn it to sleep in my own bed and refashioned it as a pillow for sleeps spent on wooden porch swings and used it to wipe up a mess (or two or three or more) of my own making along the way. Leftover molecules of dried tears live in it, as do the fingerprints of children’s sticky Kool-aid fingers that line its fabric, as do the ashes of Fourth of July fireworks gathered in its sleeves, as do the drops of river water and sweat caught between each knit, as do the belly-laughs that are woven into its very fabric.
Mistakes and joys and wrong turns and bellyflops and a constellation of tiny beautiful things are contained within this sweater. Lots of people have worn it— I like to give it to my friends when they’re up or down or anywhere in between. Lots of hearts have beat inside it.
I was thinking that maybe we could share it, too. Maybe we can make this column our collective big green sweater.
So come, you honeys, you wild things, you sweet things, you dearies. Come and lay bare. Don’t let syllables and hard consonants and long vowels stay balled up like fists in your mind. Let them out. Let them breathe. Secrets only grow bigger in the dark.
There are academic advisers and spiritual companions and counselors to be consulted, true. But “Love, Posey” is for the dramas, the dilemmas, and the delights of being here and young and alive and really living. For the colossal and the minute details that make up the everyday. We’ll tell stories and share truths and ask questions and try to put the pieces back together.
So, if you’ll let me, I’d like to be the Carl to your Dolly Parton, the Gayle to your Oprah, the Rudy Flyer to your basketball team. I promise not to do the “Dear Abby” thing or the “Emily Post’s Etiquette” thing or any other advice-column-things that feel phony or fake or used-up. We’ll have none of that here.
Readers, I wish you peanut butter filled donuts from Bill’s, a good night’s sleep, and lots of happy accidents. I promise to be honest with you. Sometimes, my head spins and I sound like a scratched record that gets caught up on its own words. I trip over my own shadow, snort when I laugh, and don’t have an answer for what I want to be when I grow up.
So, if you ever find yourself tripping up the stairs or laughing so hard you snort during church or not knowing an answer to a question, find me at firstname.lastname@example.org. You can remain anonymous or create a pen name or whatever suits your fancy. Maybe we can figure a sliver of it out. Together.