Letters to a Dead Friend, Week 2

Dear Karan,

Istanbul is your kind of city. There are friendly animals everywhere, the meat is delicious and the architecture is a marvel. It would have been perfect if you came along, too, though strangely it feels like you are, like I'm toting my own pocket-size you from place to place. Maybe it's the echo of so many messages across oceans and platforms and years. Or maybe you haven't entirely left me yet, not that I should be so special. I know you lovely widely - even fatally.

The 60-degree weather is so invigorating after a month cooped up at home or else sweltering within minutes outdoors. The Turkish hamam today had nothing on my kitchen.

PS. Someone is singing Verdi's requiem for you at the National Cathedral in Washington. Cool, na?

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Dearest Karan,

I heard from R. again today. He invited me to come visit him and your parents. It will feel odd to be there without you, but maybe you'll come and anyway I gladly accepted. You know I've long wanted to meet your parents. "Not just yet," you said the last time I asked.

I'm writing with the pen I gave you that matched our Vespa. You laugh but your teaching me to drive a Vespa made my 17-year-old-in-Italy heart just sing.

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Dear Karan,

I am really digging this pen and Turkey -- it's beautiful and clean, and people don't appear anxious or frantic. It's the perfect antidote to Delhi! I salute you for toughing it out there so many years -- as you noted recently, India ain't easy.

D. wrote to tell me she met with your family. If I'm honest, I don't really understand your relationship with her. But I don't need to. You obviously appreciated her, so I do, too.

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K.K.,

R. sent some old pictures of your trip to Singapore, including one I'd seen before, of you and R. and A. and their dog who you were so crazy about. In all of them you look happy and strong. R. said that, in defiance of your wishes, she was going to bring you to every place new and old, every milestone. I pledged to do the same. 

So you were with me today eating fish freshly caught from the Aegean in Home's birthplace. And you were next to me on the plane, talking about Putin's war and why Trump was good for companies but not for people. And then strolling up the street in Istanbul that reminds me of the West Village in the 90s. And here in my room, I can almost reach over and pat your hairy forearm. Neither of us are touchy people, I know, but I really wish I'd done that more.

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Karan,

Vacation is tiring, at least the way we do it. Five miles of walking and 10 flights of stairs at least. I won't write much, I just wanted to say I'm thinking of you. 

PS. It still stings that I won't get a written reply to this. You will have to find another way. If there's another way, I trust you'll find it.

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Dear Karan,

I am so stuffed with Lebanese food, I never want to eat again. We met a nice guy on the plane back from Izmir who invited us to a Lebanese food. Life goes on -- it does, and I'm grateful. Still mad at you for leaving the party so early.

--

Karan,

I can't believe I have to go back to an India without you in it. I want to remain angry, but I miss you too much. I really wish you could have experienced Turkey, but maybe you did. I asked you to find a way to communicate -- maybe it was that seagull taking an enormous shit on my face? Doesn't seem like something you'd do, but maybe you're still tinkering.

I hope you get some help from the New Mexico monks saying a Mass for you. One decent thing J. could do for all the breath we both wasted on him.