“I miss you. I love you. My hands are cold.”
This was a text I received in February when the winter seemed like it would never end.
The number was unfamiliar, and I couldn’t think of anyone who would write such poetry. Was it my past lover? Only he would write such simple words packed with such longing. After letting my mind slip into a land of scenarios and alternate realities, I texted back with a question mark.
“I found your message in a bottle.”
Then I remembered a day back in November when I took my two friends to Dead Horse Bay in South Brooklyn. The bay has been through a series of changes but got its name from the horse-rendering plants that would dump animal carcasses there in the 1850’s. In the 1920’s after the plants were gone, a landfill cap burst, and now the beach is littered with hundred-year-old treasures, vintage bottles, make-up containers, and old pantyhose.
It's the most dirty, most magical place I've seen in this city. It feels totally isolated, but you can’t help but feel a dense history and presence through the objects surrounding you.
On that day in November I was feeling especially nostalgic... so I wrote a letter, I stuck it in a tall green bottle, and littered it on the beach with the hundreds of other glass containers. Impulse.
I wrote: “I miss you. I love you. My hands are cold.”
A letter to a lover, who now only lives in art and poetry.
I had put my phone number at the bottom, curious to see if it would ever find the hand of a human.
He said his name was Lucas. We texted back and forth that day, and with some hesitation, I asked him to have a cup of coffee with me. My mind wondered if I would be meeting my soul mate; if this would be our story.
We met at an old diner in Clinton Hill. I ordered a cup of coffee - black.
And we shared a plate of nachos.
P.S. Check out this song that our dear Julia McGuire (featured in the gallery) wrote after I told her this story.