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Description
Dear pear,

I’m writing to you out of nostalgia and my usual ‘adult’ mood. But I’m also writing to you because I’ve never felt so hurt as to come so close back to you before.
The closer I am to you, the more I envy you for not knowing a thing about hair conditioners, painful sex, breast rashes and menstruation.
But the closer I am to you, the more I love you. I know I’ll lose you soon. No, don’t ask me… what I will lose then I want you to keep. Always.

The heap of gravel stone beside the hedge of the Ayuntamiento has left a hundred furrows on your heels. They’ll never disappear, my lovely pear, because when you said you want to paint them, they fell in love with you.

When you pass by the music shop with the big tree in front, never forget to wink to the dungaree sunflower-seed-seller who always complimented your mother and gave you an additional packet of… no, not of seeds – of sunflowers.

My sweet pear, please don’t ever stop counting pavement tiles. Your little feet fit so perfectly on them without trampling the grass growing from the crevices. If you start counting from the stop sign in front of the post office, by the time you bend the ring finger of your left hand you know your little sandal will land on your lucky tile.

You enjoy the tale of Torbalan, who kidnapped naughty children, crammed them in a bag and threw them in the river Jantra. You sometimes hear his footsteps when, fascinated and terrified, you shiver in your bed. Your grandma told you that once his huge hunting boot fell down on that poor tile and tilted it.

Since then you always stand on the higher edge and jump three tiles away… it’s such a big tilt. No, it’s not stupid, little pear, everyone deserves a fairytale, treasure yours.

In my world, my little pear, I hide my scarred heels in leather shoes that make me moan at the end of the day.

In my world the music shop was burgled, the tree was cut down and the sunflower-seller died of cancer.

In my world I can count to 7 thousand without using my hands.

My Torbalan is the cross-eyed ever-drunk neighbour, who trudges like a ghost from the local bar to the church ruins.

In my world a 10° tilt can only make me notice it by tripping me.

I’m looking forward to seeing you again in the attic windows of my primary school and sharing your joyful nursery rhymes. Keep a dry slide for me.

You’ll have all chances to be sad when you become me.

Always yours,

Canker-worm

Description
Dear pear,

I’m writing to you out of nostalgia and my usual ‘adult’ mood. But I’m also writing to you because I’ve never felt so hurt as to come so close back to you before.
The closer I am to you, the more I envy you for not knowing a thing about hair conditioners, painful sex, breast rashes and menstruation.
But the closer I am to you, the more I love you. I know I’ll lose you soon. No, don’t ask me… what I will lose then I want you to keep. Always.

The heap of gravel stone beside the hedge of the Ayuntamiento has left a hundred furrows on your heels. They’ll never disappear, my lovely pear, because when you said you want to paint them, they fell in love with you.

When you pass by the music shop with the big tree in front, never forget to wink to the dungaree sunflower-seed-seller who always complimented your mother and gave you an additional packet of… no, not of seeds – of sunflowers.

My sweet pear, please don’t ever stop counting pavement tiles. Your little feet fit so perfectly on them without trampling the grass growing from the crevices. If you start counting from the stop sign in front of the post office, by the time you bend the ring finger of your left hand you know your little sandal will land on your lucky tile.

You enjoy the tale of Torbalan, who kidnapped naughty children, crammed them in a bag and threw them in the river Jantra. You sometimes hear his footsteps when, fascinated and terrified, you shiver in your bed. Your grandma told you that once his huge hunting boot fell down on that poor tile and tilted it.

Since then you always stand on the higher edge and jump three tiles away… it’s such a big tilt. No, it’s not stupid, little pear, everyone deserves a fairytale, treasure yours.

In my world, my little pear, I hide my scarred heels in leather shoes that make me moan at the end of the day.

In my world the music shop was burgled, the tree was cut down and the sunflower-seller died of cancer.

In my world I can count to 7 thousand without using my hands.

My Torbalan is the cross-eyed ever-drunk neighbour, who trudges like a ghost from the local bar to the church ruins.

In my world a 10° tilt can only make me notice it by tripping me.

I’m looking forward to seeing you again in the attic windows of my primary school and sharing your joyful nursery rhymes. Keep a dry slide for me.

You’ll have all chances to be sad when you become me.

Always yours,

Canker-worm