Dearest,
The window is open
just enough to let in the cool night air. With precise aim refined by years of
experience I flick the burning butt of my cigarette through the opening. The
spent cancer-stick soars over the sill without a solitary ash defacing the
freshly painted surface. The orange ember explodes into a million dancing
fireflies before tumbling to the street twenty-three stories below. That was
easy. You should have seen it.
Jumping won’t be
easy.
Raising the window
another two inches, my hands tempt the drying paint. It’s cowardly to press on
at this miserably slow clip. I know that, you don’t need to point it out. A few
more inches and I will be able to pass through the opening. My butt this time.
You can laugh if you like, it doesn’t offend me. Nothing does. Suicide jokes
are no longer off limits.
A fresh cigarette
awaits stoically in the worn crook of my fingers anticipating the flame that
will touch its crown. I surrender to its call. Don’t judge me, you have done
that enough. The damage is done anyway. The cancer has returned.
I don’t mean for this
to be a pity-party. I am a smoker. Have been for more years than I can remember.
I read all the warnings. The Surgeon General was spot on. But you know
what...it’s my goddamn party and if I want to cry in my beer there is no one to
stop me, not even the friggin’ General can do that. Cry, I will. After all, it’s my last hoorah. By
the way, I don’t need to point this out—but I will— you didn’t even bother to
come.
Nine-hundred-fifty-two
days since my last chemo treatment. I counted them; every day remembered by a
tick mark on our bedroom wall. There is one mark with a red circle around it,
that one is for the day you walked out. Gone with the wind. Vἁmonos,
Adios amigo. No looking back. I want to remember that one the most. Do you
remember what you told me? You said it was too hard on you. Too hard? On you?
Try fucking chemo! Has your throat ever burned so badly you couldn’t eat? So
bad you couldn’t breathe without screaming at the pain? But you can’t scream
because your throat is so raw it will bleed if you do. Hard on you? Have you
ever been afraid to look in the mirror? My hair never did come back completely,
although it does have a curl to it now. Was that the hard part for you, the way
I looked? Was it the weight loss? I didn’t wear scare-a-crow very well, did I?
Maybe it was my sleepless nights? But did you know about those, sleeping
beauty? Probably not. Or the horrific medical bills? Or the throwing up? That
was it? Right?
Or was it living
every day of your life fearful of the next test result? A test that will reveal
the cancer-demon has returned and is lurking beside your tombstone chiseling in
one...more...letter.
No. Silly me. That
wasn’t you, that was me.
You just left.
Well now, that was a
bummer. Sorry to put a damper on the party. Maybe this will make you smile; did
you know this is the hotel where we first made love? Do you remember? I had
rose petals laying across the bed, a bottle of Champagne waiting on ice and two
long stem glasses resting on the pillows. It was cheap bubbly water and plastic
glasses from Kmart. I bought the rose from that blind street vendor on 42nd
street. We didn’t have a dime to spare between us. In love and dead broke. I
sang that Lionel Richie song to you, say
you, say me, say it together. You told me to shut up and make love to you. Naturally. It was the best night of my
life.
I would like to tell
you it was the same room, only freshly painted. That would be romantic. But
it’s not. You were afraid of heights, tall buildings, elevators. I laughed
telling you not to be afraid, It’s the
fall that will kill you.
Irony?
Our son was a baby
when you made your unexpected departure. My son. That really hurt. On my
weekends, he cries every time you leave. He doesn’t know me. I cry every time
he says bye-bye daddy. I bought him a
new baseball glove for Christmas. The one he has now is too small. I think he
will like it. You can tell him it’s from you if you like. I was going to take
him to a Yankee’s game, you know dad and son kind of stuff. We would eat crappy
hotdogs, dribble mustard on the front of our look-a-like jerseys, yell at the
umpire (no bad words, I promise). We would have fun, just father and son, a day
at the ballpark.
Tell him that’s what
I was going to do. Please.
The doctor told me
we could try the chemo again. We? I can’t do that. This is the place where you
tell me to fight. Remind me how precious life is. Tell me how our son needs me,
at least every other weekend and for two weeks each summer. This is where you
take my hand and look into my eyes the way you always did and tell me I can do
this. But you’re not here now, are you?
Do you want to hear
the hardest part?
I’ll burn one more
cigarette before opening the window to critical mass. The outside air has
become colder. I hear the music of the city below. An urban symphony. Car horns
are the brass section, percussion provided by ill-fitting manhole covers.
Violins, compliments of Winter’s breeze rushing over frozen snow.
The window slides
upwards without resistance. I can smell the paint. Somewhere, a baby’s cry.
It’s too cold for a baby to be outside, what’s wrong with people?
I flick my cigarette
out the window watching the ember explode into a million dancing fireflies.
It’s so cold.
Do you want to know
the hardest part?
I still love you.
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