Cape Town, South Africa
March 10, 1999

Dearest Miranda,

It is perhaps seldom in one's life that you get to know a person who is so much like yourself that it frightens you.

Against my better judgment, I can't help reflecting on the fact that, astrologically, we are born a day apart- though a couple of years separate us in age.

That gives me reason to believe in the premise of star signs when I listen to you, when you break me down into the essence of myself with your casual flippancy and sparkling wit, or, at times, with the deep and almost wistful seriousness that pervades your speech, or letter-writing.

And that is why I cried a little cry for you, when you told me how much pain you endured, when so young, at the hands of some so cruel.

If I could put my arms around you now, would you flinch at the touch of a man, or would you too recognize that although we are separate beings, we are so nearly one in mind and soul?

Would you allow me to slowly caress the sorrow from our hearts, and the anger which is burned needlessly into our capacities? Would anyone believe that our love, which seems so complete, is purely platonic? That we have never met in this real, cruel world, but through letters, telephone calls, and our very souls?

Well, how could they? I hardly do. And yet when you learn to love yourself, as we all should do, it is easy to fathom the love we have for each other.

It's also worth noting that the very people who thankfully conceived you fell in love the very same way. Your father crossed oceans to meet your mother based on the strength of letters which she had written, and I would pluck planets from the heavens if that is what it would take to be with you now, my sweet.

I attach to this letter a poem I wrote for you on hearing of your youthful tragedy, for, right now, all I have is words - may they be enough to give you strength.

I call this poem, "And in the garden the colors change."



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