TWO LETTERS

Caitlin Hernandez

With Anyone Else

We didn't so much meet in the middle as smash headlong into each other. You started spinning in a circle, carrying me along with you, and we rotated like that: like a four-legged, four-armed roundabout. We didn't—couldn't—let go. We were connected by our hearts as much as by our hands.

Eventually, we untangled long enough to sit in chairs, side by side, as close as we could get. We held on to each other's hands as though someone might pry us apart at any moment … or as though we couldn't yet believe that this was real.

In spite of all the words we'd traded, in spite of all we'd said and shared, our four-year, five-hundred-letter friendship hadn't been tangible until this moment. The book we'd been writing had come to life, and we'd finally jumped through the pages enough to breathe the same air. Your essence was palpable, present, no longer solely rooted in words beneath my fingertips or sound filtering through my ears.

Tentatively, I reached out my free hand to touch you: your shoulder, your hair, your wrist. When you squeezed my fingers, then nestled my hand between yours, I knew this was real.

*

Sitting with you in my bedroom was akin to two worlds colliding. I'd grown up here. I'd become myself here. I'd written hundreds of emails and had thousands of conversations with you in this space. My walls and my windows had kept our secrets safe. My bed and my stuffed animals had hugged me when you couldn't.

You'd never before been here … and now, here you were, strumming your guitar, while I curled on the carpet at your feet and sang along.

The air in my room pulsed and vibrated with the years of our friendship. Maybe it was that air which helped us sing in perfect harmony without ever planning it, or discussing it, or even meaning to find it.

*

Both of us liked making playlists. One night, we switched back and forth between your music and mine, and we danced together in my room, windows wide, voices and fingers entwining.

You were the first person I'd ever known who asked to touch my face. You could see enough, you said, to piece together an idea, a concept. But touch might complete the picture.

I'd spent so many years running away from this—this misconception, this stereotype—that, with anyone else, I would have laughed and changed the subject. But I loved you, and this was absolutely not wrong or funny, and the last thing in the world I ever would have done was laugh.

My disconcertion melted away when your fingertips flitted over my features. Your touch was light and inquisitive, barely more than a flutter.

Afterwards, I think we were both a little embarrassed; we impulsively fumbled for the other's hands and squeezed. I hoped with everything I had that you'd obtained a complete picture … and I wondered what it looked like to you.

*

For all that both of us were warm and hands-on, we were each knee-deep in struggles toward feeling better, stronger, safer in our skins. Maybe it should have surprised us that, from our first moments together, the touch barrier withered away into nonexistence. But it didn't surprise us. We'd known all along that it would be like this. Our experiences and our stories had transcended miles. Trust cemented the stitches and the staples of our friendship. Now that we were resonating on the same wavelength, never more than an arm's reach away, our hands were busily but gently solidifying the connection our hearts had established so long ago.

There was so much to talk about—so much to say—that no time could be wasted, not even a minute. Every night was a sleepover. I'd leave my own room, crawl under your blanket with you, and, in whispers, we'd remember and share and plan. The breeze puffing in through the window just above us smelled like summertime, and the crickets were our soundtrack.

Finally, our whispers would become few, then far between, then fragmented. We'd fall asleep holding hands, our arms interwoven.

One night, you had a nightmare, and I pulled you in close. Neither of us woke up all the way. In the morning, you half-remembered.

In one of my favorite books, the protagonist, while sleeping outside, had felt as though the stars were so bright and so many and so far away that they might pull him into the sky, never to return. He tied his sleeping bag to a tree with a rope, just to make sure, just in case. Our connection reminded me of that. We were anchors, strong and steady, fingers locked and fastened against a world which so often seemed determined to shake our foundation to its roots.

*

I wouldn't have let anyone else do it, at least not without a fight, but it was you, and you asked instead of ordered, and we weren't going anywhere special, just to my old elementary school playground, because I wanted to show that part of my childhood to you.

You brought out your hair straightener, and I stood stalk-still. Most of the girls I knew—sighted girls who'd insisted on straightening my hair, instead of requesting to do it—had made mistakes, scalding my skin or coming close enough that I'd cringe and cower. Ironically, you, who could see only marginally better than I, were competent and careful, and I never flinched.

Once my hair was straightened, you brushed it back into a long ponytail. You wanted it to be absolutely perfect, so it took you a few tries. With anyone else, I would have griped and complained. But we were chatting, and as it always did when we were together, time had a way of speeding by unnoticed.

We descended the stairs hand in hand, even though we didn't need to. Everyone oohed and ahed because I didn't know how to style my own ponytails. At least, not well, not perfectly. I still don't know how to do them perfectly.

Someone, as they inevitably would, told me, "You should do this every day." I don't know whether you saw it or sensed it, but you picked up on the shift in my emotions, the switch in my mood. Our little spell—our foray into almost-princess playtime—had unraveled, taking me with it.

You and I traipsed into the backyard and sat on the ground, cross-legged. It was sunny, but not oppressively so, and we both automatically put the shine off to one side: you because you could see better without the glare, me because the brightness was hurting my eyes. Absently, you strummed your guitar, while I walked my fingertips along the cracks and crevices in the asphalt, tracing paths which led nowhere. I'd memorized this map as a little girl, huddled on this very spot, waiting for burgers to finish barbecuing, or for Dad to set up the slip 'n slide, or for somebody to come and take me roller skating around the block.

"It upset you," you said, "didn't it?"

With anyone else, I would have denied the truth. But in your case, my response would be immaterial, because you already knew. You always did.

"Kind of." I hunkered forward over my knees, hugging them. "Because I don't get it, you know? And I never will get it. You're good at this stuff because you at least kind of get it."

Your hands came up to touch my ponytail—our ponytail—and you leaned in close enough to see my face. "You don't have to do this every day, you know. You don't need to."

If I'd been speaking with anyone else, I wouldn't have believed in the sentiment. Too many people had pushed for change, required conformity, demanded that I pay attention to a world I couldn't understand and didn't even want to . But from you, the words rang true.

Though it was by no means easy for you, your brand of vision mandated that you straddle their world and mine. And from your vantage point astride the fence, you could see things so much more clearly than the rest of us.

*

I towed you around the playground by the hand, from slides to ladders, from parallel bars to pull-up bars to the horseshoe rings I couldn't reach. I knew every inch of the jungle gym by muscle memory. It had been years, but the layout was embedded in my being. My fingers greeted my old friends: plastic slides and fiberglass benches and aluminum poles. My feet recalled the dropoffs, the twists and turns, the trails and transitions. My nose remembered the tanbark, the metallic supports of the monkey bars, the sun-baked rubber padding coating the pavement.

I could have navigated that space half-asleep without a problem. Days upon days upon days had been spent in this small corner of the world, braving heights and surviving scrapes, learning to ask and trust, to hold on and let go. So much of who I became later began here, built on a foundation of play.

The one thing I couldn't seem to lead you to was the swing set. I told you about how I'd accidentally gotten kicked in the face while searching for a swing, an incident which had spawned a new school rule: "CAITLIN CANNOT GO TO THE SWINGS ALONE." For all I knew, the swings could have been on Mars. They existed in a realm I couldn't access unless I was led. But I wanted, desperately, to take you there.

Eventually, working together, we found them. We swung separately at first, tossing words between us as we swayed in opposite synchronicity. After a while, I hopped onto your swing with you. You wrapped your hands over mine around the chains, and, as with so many things, we found our rhythm without speech or struggle, sailing higher and higher. Maybe we were guided by our heartbeats.

*

After a long day spent together, we rode home with the windows down. We were tired, so we slumped over the armrest and took turns using each other's heads as pillows. It made us giggle, which meant we didn't doze at all.

I found it strange that the toughest topics could be squeezed into such tiny words. My window was still partially open, and the brisk wind swept the poisonous words away into nothingness … but not before, working together, we smoothed and softened some of the jagged, ragged edges.

*

On our last night, I fell asleep before you did … but only half-asleep. I woke up enough to hear you typing.

"What are you doing?" I sat up.

"Shhhh." You nudged me back under the blanket. "I'm writing you a letter. But you can't read it until I'm on the plane home."

*

We handed you off to a gate agent with hugs and a kiss on the cheek, and as the escalator and my feet moved in one direction, my heart strained against them both. I hated the emptiness that the fullness of our sharing had left behind. But as I wended my way home, I remembered your letter. I read your words, the way I always had … but now, beneath my fingertips, I felt more than words. I felt your hands, and your warmth. I felt the roughness of the redwoo d tree we'd hugged, and the smoothness of your long hair. And I knew, as much as I'd ever known anything, that this was not an ending, but a beginning.

* * *

Mel Finefrock

What Love Sees

Your eagerness to begin our first full day together, in person, was as bright and warm as the California sunshine that crept into your open window. You waited to wake me only for as long as you could stand to, then tousled my hair and spoke to my jetlag-stricken self in singsong until I stirred.

Your chestnut hair, unbrushed, fell flawlessly around your face and onto your pajamas-clad shoulders as you responded to a few e-mails on your laptop. The contrast between your skin and hair in the light of dawn was absolutely striking to me. In mid-dress, I whipped out my camera and sneaked a picture. You mock-fumed when you heard the shutter click.

"Don't worry," I reassured you. "I won't post it anywhere."

But I did, and thank goodness you were forgiving. It was too perfect not to share. Even my smarting eyes could tell that your face had expressed the utmost sense of joy and serenity.

* * *

That blue-and-white-striped Hollister shirt had been a staple in your wardrobe for nearly a year and a half since your eighteenth birthday. I remember that, whenever I wanted to feel near to you, I'd stare at a snapshot that a friend had taken of you wearing it while sitting at an upright piano. I had fondly branded that image onto my retinas, to the point that I once dreamt of that very scene. In the dream, though, I approached you from behind, then came around to the front of the piano and rested my elbows on its casement so I could listen to you play.

Today, the setting for your Hollister modeling portrait was different. We visited the park that epitomized so much of your childhood. Sitting on the swings with our backs to the afternoon sun, we conversed as easily as we had in letters for nearly five years.

My eyes were trained on you, and your face was inclined toward me. I couldn't see your smile from this distance, but I could hear it in your voice.

I couldn't help it; you were too beautiful, too radiant, not to be photographed. Surreptitiously I lifted my camera to eye level from its resting place fastened around my neck and took a picture. Even though my sighted friends and family rarely judged my odd hobby, I felt most comfortable shooting around you. With anyone else, something about it made me feel so naked. You could sense my nakedness rather than see it, but I didn't mind; you knew and appreciated all of my vulnerabilities in a way that others didn't.

"Let's try a candid one," I said, excited.

"But wasn't that candid?" you countered astutely.

"You're right." I hemmed and hawed for a lack of better explanation, then continued. "Not all candid subjects are necessarily facing away from the camera when they're captured. This time, though, I want you to pose like I'm not here."

"So, don't look at you?"

"Right. Pose," I laughed, "but like it's a candid."

Like a natural, you clasped your hands in your lap and turned as though to contemplate your shadow, which reflected you at an acute angle on the tanbark. The ponytail I'd brushed your hair into now cascaded past your shoulders, more prominent in this profile shot than in the other which I'd taken head-on. Something about this piece felt somber and yet hopeful; a girl who faced her shadow saw it not, and was therefore unintimidated by it.

* * *

I'm not sure who stole whose clothing first that night when we were getting ready for bed, but there I was, wearing your Hollister shirt, and there you were, wearing the North Texas tee I'd received at the nightmare known as freshman orientation just the week before. Somehow, the switch just about worked, though I think you looked better in my shirt than I looked in yours.

I warned you before taking this picture. It turned out dark in the yellow lamplight and accidental absence of flash, but I kept it, feeling a sense of pride that my best friend had boasted the green-and-white emblem of my future alma mater. It made me wish that we could go to school together, but then I remembered that, despite attending colleges that were seventeen hundred miles apart, we would still share everything, just as we always had.

* * *

There was another photo from the aforementioned birthday shoot wherein you sat, smiling, with your chin cradled in your hands and your elbows resting on your knees. Your head was cocked slightly to the side. It was intended to be a sassy pose, but I saw your sweet nature behind those dancing brown eyes.

One of my senior pictures looked much the same. Never mind that I was lying, rather than sitting, across the hood of a false pickup truck. My head tilted into my hands in just the same way yours had, and despite the obvious differences in our features, my expression mirrored yours exactly. I had enough vision then that I was able to crop both images and formed them into a side-by-side collage. How was it that, despite never having been close in proximity, we were starting to look like each other?

I think this reality became most tangibly evident to us both on the night when we sat in the dark and consented to touch one another's face. To complete the picture, I thought, because I desperately ached to see the details my eyes failed to register. We were both shy, because the media had misconstrued this act of intimacy, creating a sense of disillusionment within our community. But stereotypes be damned, we broke this barrier for each other and, like Escher's hands, we lovingly fashioned one another into being.

Your skin was smooth, your features soft, your smile just the right mixture of vulnerability and trust; and in that moment—in that timid but affectionate exchange—I found myself reflected. Maybe it was hard to tell where one of us ended and the other began because it didn't quite work that way after all.

Caitlin Hernandez is currently pursuing her masters degree in special education from San Francisco State University. She enjoys reading, eating ice cream with Oreos, mentoring and tutoring students with and without disabilities, skipping, and writing novels and short stories for and about young adults. Hernandez has written three original plays for CRE Outreach. CRE Outreach is the only acting company in the country that hosts a theater troupe comprised entirely of blind and visually impaired actors.

Mel Finefrock is a graduate of the University of North Texas. She has worked as a freelance fiction editor with independent authors such as award-winning romance novelist Krista Lakes. Finefrock is also a regular guest blogger with ODEP's Disability Blog and a new guest blogger with the Huffington Post. In her spare time, she writes songs and poetry.