Open Letter to a Yeti

Listen. I saw a yeti yesterday. It was big and hairy and it stood there in the street (many people were in the street, for this was a festival) as though attempting, albeit failing, to be an obstacle. I felt then, so long ago, and again today, so far in the future, that the yeti was there to remind me of something. It wanted to be noticed, but not despised. Perhaps it was self hate.

A dangerous man with a knife threatened the yeti. The man with the knife stood in front of it for a few moments, perhaps now considering that there were children about, unaccustomed to gore and most likely to be traumatized by it. Sure enough, the man’s young son approached him and pulled at his shirt. The man looked at the yeti, his son, and the yeti before finally tilting his head down and leaving.

This interaction was beautiful. It reminded me of those aspects of human nature that many like to deny the existence thereof. A man can change, although he may presently be violent, despicable, and rapacious. A man can surely change.

The yeti followed me home yesterday. I cannot be certain why it followed me home, why it picked me over the thousands of fellow festival-goers. It walked inside and sat in my breakfast chair. I gave it some cereal.

It stares at me now, resting on my couch and flipping through the channels on the television (not having cable narrowed that slim selection). It stares through me. In me.

Somebody…listen…let the yeti out.