thank you, meg fee.

i found this blog today by a girl named meg fee. she lives in new york. and she must have been born with a pen in her hand because she writes ridiculously well. 

but what took me more than her great, great writing is that she’s publishing, in a mix of posts about a cousin’s wedding, haircuts, and yankee games, letters titled: letter to husband-to-be.

i had always heard about girls who wrote to their future husbands, had saved the letters and given them to their prized man on the morn of their wedding day.
i tried it once, but then felt really stupid. what if he never showed up and i was writing to no one? i’d be standing at the end of a gravel road with an unmailed stack of letters in my hands wishing i hadn’t been so romantic.
i stopped writing.

but this girl, this meg fee, has begun her own silent letter-writing-campaign. she wrote a letter yesterday and posted it to her husband-to-be. and it was simple. and strong. and with its thick and cursive terms, i found myself feeling her sentiments as if they were my own.

she wrote,

john ashberry’s at north farm:

“Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you,
at incredible speed, traveling day and night,
Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents,
through narrow passes.
But he will know where to find you 
Recognize you when he sees you.” 

it takes risk to believe such things, to believe that love isn’t just a thing of stories and fairy tales. and it takes unyielding dedication to keep stoking a fire in the belief that someone will come join you in front of it someday, to share in its warmth. 

from a girl who has neglected said fire, and as inspired by meg fee, here is what i will write. 

to the dude that i will someday marry:

i love you already. entirely.

leave your ratty plaid shirt in an old dirty pile for three weeks, drop our car keys in the toilet accidentally (and then crouch over with laughter because, of course, the toilet wasn’t empty. you’ll yell for me to come see. i’ll come see. i’ll laugh uncontrollably. then we’ll fight over who has to fish out the key), and pick me up twenty minutes late from work because our dog got out and forced you into a mad dash around six city blocks.

do all those things and just hold my hand. 

that’s it.