I write letters that I never send. To say the things I could have said and didn’t. And to remind myself of the rawness of human emotion when it’s unfiltered and without risk. Some are true, and some are merely exercises under the influence of a momentary muse.

Dear Poppy,

I saw you at the bus stop today. You were wearing a fuchsia and pale pink dress that draped in all the right places, and some that were certainly unintentional. You had an oversized pink and peach floral scarf wrapped around your neck, and you were wearing candy pink rain boots with Hello Kitty printed on them. Your fingers were decorated with the weight of half a dozen pastel rhinestone rings, and your hair showed the effects of a fading magenta ombre.

You looked like a fluffy stick of cotton candy or those pink baby aspirin that taste so good. I started humming a little Steven Tyler singing about his favorite things, and then I giggled at the implication. You had your own jam going, though I saw no headset.

You probably looked ridiculous to some; nothing more than a joke without a punchline. But I thought you looked happy. Like you’d been carrying your own drummer around in your hip pocket for a lot of years. Ready to dance in the rain or shock the tourists whenever the mood struck you.

I hate pink. But I rather adore you, Miss Poppy from the Block.

Yours,
the coxswain