I remember we wrote letters. We were very young, and when we were very young, people still wrote letters. Unlike now. I don’t write letters anymore, especially not to boys. But we used to write letters to each other, and your letters were beautiful, and you had a beautiful pen name. I think it was a name of an angel from the Bible. I hadn’t read the Bible back then, and you made me want to. I imagined the ecstasy of encountering your name in the Bible.

One day, my mom took me to your city. Our mom knew each other. They were college mates, and they became friends because they both felt that some significant part of their life was wasted. Sentimental as they were, their sons were sentimental like shit. That was why we became pen pals. I met you that day. You were leaner than I thought, light-skinned, such a plain boy as Wilde would say. We went to a mountain, and there were trees of Yangmei, Chinese bayberries. We picked some, and our hands were dyed of red. We also picked some pears. I ate so many that made you laugh. You didn’t notice. You said. Notice what? I asked. There were worms in your pear. You said. Then I really found a worm, and I tossed the pear away. You were stupid. You laughed. I laughed with you.

A friend told me today, that we had grown old. We had grown old because so many around us had died, our families, our friends. We watched them stop breathing; watched them cremated. We saw their remains, and they were like skeletons we saw in archeological museums. We learned to stay put. Some started crying and we failed to.

We were hopeful back then. Naturally, because we were little kids. We had so much to say. We thought the world would be ours, one day. And the world was different back then. We spent hours staring up at the sky. We watched the clouds moving, and we imagined gods and fairies lying there, and it was soft and inviting, and one day they would bring us along. We overheard grown-ups discuss politics, as if they had a say, as if under their command they could change anything. And the politics were different. It was a time when people believed that politicians could have a real personality. That their personality could have depth. That not everything they say was cheap and flattering. That manner still mattered and that vulgarity was not celebrated.

We stopped writing letters. I don’t recall when. The next time we saw each other, we had graduated from college. We met beneath a highway overpass, and you didn’t hide that you were gay. We went to a gay bar and we met a lot of gays, all kinds of gays and it was a gay museum. And I was a little upset because they did not respect you in a way I did. They joked about your record of having the most men in one night. And you told me, nervously, that a show was going to take place some time in this bar tonight. But they kept talking. They said, those men had been literally lining up outside your room, one by one. You laughed and I laughed. But I didn’t want to laugh with you. I didn't mean that. Some days later you stopped talking to me, and only much later did I discover you had blacklisted me. Months passed, and we spoke again. This time you told me you were in mental hospital. Your mom sent you there, in hope of your recovery.

I think of you tonight. I think of you many times in years past. We haven’t spoken. I see now you are a good designer; you create concise icons. You have been to places, perhaps more than I do. You photograph. Of course you are a gifted writer, as you wrote beautiful letters early on. And you had a beautiful pen name, a name of an angel, remember? I read the Bible, you know? Long time ago, but I didn’t find your name there. I forgot it was very important, as other elements in the Bible drew me closer. Attention was a very crafty folk. One blink, and we stopped writing letters. But I remember you just folded your palm stained red. Mine got sticky and I just got a worm in my pear. We were on a mountain and the breeze was just fine. And our moms were happy and kind and still alive. And we were laughing and we were hopeful. Those were the days. We were hopeful.