Dear Miss Emily D.,
OMG I almost missed your birthday! Well, I didn’t almost miss it, as I woke up this morning thinking of it, but then, well, remember that thing you said about “keep me from what they call households”? Yeah, well, I actually ended up with one of those (households, that is) so… well, never mind.
But anyway, for your birthday, I thought I’d write you a letter. From the world. That never wrote to you. Well, I guess I’m just one small voice in the world. But I think I speak for all of us when I say: about that Immortality you were so obsessed with? Yeah, you achieved it! Your collected poems is, like, 2.5 inches thick. Your house is a museum (and so is Susie‘s by the way). Your archive is online, which means, well, it’s hard to explain but let’s just say it’s available to anyone with an internet connection, which is, well, never mind.
Like I was saying, every high school student in the country learns your poem about “Because I could not stop for Death — / he kindly stopped for me –“ and if they’re lucky a few more besides. And, I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this but there’s this old TV show called Gilligan’s Island and most of your poems can actually be sung to the tune of the Gilligan’s Island theme song! It goes kind of: da da da da da da da da da da da da da daaaa. Well, never mind.
But people have devoted entire careers to you! They look at everything: your letters, your family, your little books (they call them fascicles), the evolution of your handwriting, pin holes in the corners of your manuscripts (don’t be mad; Susie put them there when she was trying to organize your work for publication), the shape and inclination of your dashes. In fact, there’s even an artist that has designed and made quilts from your different dashes and markings. I know, right!?
Where was I? Oh, yeah, I wanted to tell you that the bees are hanging in there. They’re still at it despite some not-so-minor setbacks. But don’t worry, a MacArthur genius is looking into the issue so that, when future generations of readers come across the word “bee” in your work, they’ll know what you were thinking.
Also, you may have heard a rumor about my son saying something like his mom is a world-famous poet, in fact his mom’s name is Emily Dickinson? I just want to tell you that I had nothing to do with that.
Back to the households and all that bread you baked — I’ve always wanted to ask you: did you learn anything from all that baking? I mean, was it edifying in any way now that you look back on it lo these many years later? Just wondering.
Oh and back to the dashes, we have these really cool things now called hashtags. They’re kind of hard to explain. We use them in what we call the Twitterverse (like a universe, kind of, but for really short attention spans. Well not really a universe. But, never mind.). A hashtag is a filter for directing short bursts of communication, but also kind of an abbreviation for telling a reader what to think of when you say something else. I say all this, but actually I don’t know for sure what a hashtag is, I just think you might’ve liked them.
I’m kind of embarrassed to admit this, but I have a shirt with your likeness on it, and sometimes I even wear it. #poetcrush
But seriously, Emily (do you mind if I call you Emily?), I really do want to say thank you. For being born and for doing all your work. For showing up at your desk and keeping at it. And especially for the hour of lead, and the certain slant of light, for splitting the lark and for that thing you said about “Parting is all we know of heaven, / And all we need of hell.” And for feeling a funeral in your brain, and for the days when the birds come back, yes, definitely for those. For telling the truth but telling it slant. Also, thanks for keeping the sabbath at home sometimes; that really relieves a lot of guilt for me.
So, in closing, happy birthday! And thanks for being there for me. I mean, basically, you’re my oldest friend besides Jane, but you were right in the mix there with us! I’ll never forget your face looking at me from the cover of your Selected Poems and Letters. The way your eyes kind of said, I’m Nobody! Who are you? / Are you — Nobody — too? It’s like you knew or something!
In closing let me just add,
Which, if it sounds familiar, is something you once wrote, and I just have to say, we still wait as She passes, it’s still a narrow time and our souls, yes, jostled. But now we know just a little more about what to say, or how to say it, thanks to you.
Keeping fast hold of hands! — forever your,