Open Letter of Harris Forstead

The Open Letter of Harris Forstead (A Christmas Letter)

Dear World,
Although unheard of in times that lay before, in times of dispair and broken spirits, in the times when people had filled their minds to the brim with simplistic thoughts of survival, here in this day and this age, Christmas is an anomaly.

My brother, Studdard Forstead, and I had a long conversation in the beginning moments of December, when the snow is common, the days becoming shorter and cozier and some of the local simpletons had decided to put up holiday decorations prohibitively early. He said to me "If secrets where to lie comfortably anywhere, it would be in bosom of Christmas."

I asked him, quite quickly, whatever did he mean by that? He wouldn't tell me. Studdard, though as young as I was three years ago, was always wise beyond his years. While some may speak of me as serious in nature, brooding, I felt that these were trivial facts to Studdard. He would say to me "Harris, there's not a single thing you can keep from me."

Secrets, it was always secrets with Studdard, he was always looking to find out if I harbored some new black knowledge from him every week and every week I would reply that there was not. Sometimes there was. Studdard would always know. Studdard would never tell.

Being a black cloak in the corner, huddled up so secretively, he seemed far too friendly. The black cloak image did not fit his personality, nor his countenence. But... oh, what was I saying? Listen to me, babbling on.

Well, Studdard always had to know, where I early on learned to be okay with not sticking my nose where it didn't belong, like an open mustard jar, or perhaps anywhere near the hindquarters of another human being. These images did not disturb Studdard, he was quite alright, always following the human race, always following ME... by the ass.

So secrets being his forte, being his art, his tool, his passion, it surprised me when he said that. "If secrets where to lie comfortably anywhere, it would be in bosom of Christmas." At first, to me, it seemed as though he was speaking of the idea of a gift, a special present, wrapped with a ribbon, a secret to be revealed on Christmas Day, why there is a secret and a happy one at that. Secrets created of nothing more than anticipation.

But true secrets carry so much more than anticipation. "Harris, there is not a single thing you can keep from me." Yes, Studdard. I know. I know. Any secret I could possibly hope to have... well, perhaps it could be hidden in the folds of Christmas? On Christmas, I felt not his convicting gaze, his eyes were transfixed on his wife and child, happy in their own reality, there were no secrets, only love. Studdard did not meddle in the affairs of secrets that day.

It came to me, one day, what he meant... but to understand why, you must first understand how. I sat alone, next to a fireplace, roaring, crackling, the only sound being a calm fire, the subtle flick of a page turning in my book, and eventually, a faint meowing outside of my door. Meowing as David, my tabby, usually did. I got up, much to my own discomfort, for I had not enacted the use of any other heat in the house, so each step to the door was especially cold.

As I opened the door for David, he brought with him the top half of what I assume used to be a rodent. It dripped blood, like an old macabre, grim fairy tale. I could see its spine hang down, and naturally, I had to hold down many reflexes. I kicked the cat out, along with its prize and sat down. The cat was punished for this secret he kept from me, but... should have he been prepared?

A secret...

Why would a secret be able to lie so comfortably in the dull, wonderous and opulent decor and humor of Christmas? Perhaps peoples eyes are diverted the other way. But I think Studdard was wrong, because secrets don't lie comfortably anymore. Secrets don't rest themselves in anyone's body, including my own. Secrets never rest.

And so, as an open letter to the world, and especially to my brother Studdard, so he will finally FINALLY stop giving me that look, I accept with a full, open and honest heart, my own homosexuality.

I hope this world will forgive me. I hope my parents will forgive me. I hope I can forgive myself.

Now if you'll excuse me, it's Christmas Eve and David is waiting for his supper.

Sincerest Regards,
Harris Forstead