A Letter to Jason Mraz

Jason, I remember the first time I heard you singing on the radio.

I said to my boyfriend at the time, "I really like this song. This guy has a great voice."

He said, "I think it's stupid."

It should surprise no one that he is long gone, and you still remain, a little flame warm under the skin.

It's safe to keep feeding this particular fire. We've practically met, now, pressed our palms against each other on a sidewalk in Richmond (and your palm was cool and soft). But we didn't really meet.

I was standing there with my girls, far too early for your concert, when you came out with your little guitar. Who could believe it was you, so close? We had never imagined it was possible. We didn't even have cameras.

You sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," (which is becoming a bit of a theme song for me these days) and even in the open air the notes rang like the purest of bells from your throat. But I couldn't tell you my name, or how I think we might fall in love, if we ever did meet.

There was just your palm against my palm, your palm against all the other palms of all the other strangers standing there, all the intimate skin of those dozens of hands touching and withdrawing. And how safe it is to love you, whom I can never lose, who will never remember me.

Thank you for that moment. Thank you for your song.