My name is Cassandra.
And I am 28 years old.
And some days I wonder what you all must picture me as.
When you read my little love letters.
Like a character in a book.
I've given you hints of descriptions.
Within the lines of my thoughts.
Like how I have quite a few freckles.
Some wobbily bits.
And usually go about barefoot when I'm at home.
But no specific physical attributes.
No personal pictures.
Just these crinkled-edged, aged photographs.
Of complete strangers.
Found in boxes in antique stores and flea markets.
Do you ever wonder?
Am I tall? Am I short?
Do I have one of those cute button noses? Or a schnoz?
Wavy, raven locks? A dead ringer for Molly Ringwald?
Tell me, do you suppose I have a lisp? Or a stutter?
A cleft in my lip? A dimple at my cheek?
A little meat around the bones? Long, bony limbs?
Do I have a gap between my teeth?
Part of me wants to set the record straight.
But more of me can't stand it when a movie director casts the completely wrong actor to play a character from a most beloved book.
So I'll blurry that picture of me up there a bit more.
And let these scribbled thoughts of mine.
These hopes and dreams.
My little love letters.
Conjure up and form something completely of your own making.
Your own doing.
Your own imaginings.
I trust you'll come to understand me.
Sans the long list of specifics.
To know me.
Through my words.
To see me for who I am.
A hopeless romantic.
Full of hope.
(And devoid of lazy eye and double chin.)