re-entry. I can’t say the angle was correct and yet here I am, a wreck, but a walking one.
I don’t know why I’m still here, but we both know the reasons for our separation. Closing the door felt like another death, and yet also filled me with perverse relief – another responsibility I could leave behind, another room to shut off and ignore. Having eaten bitter for so long the smell, the possibility of sweet, was unnerving. I’ve said this before and will say it again – it was never you and Patrick, it was always me floundering in the bog. I’ve never gotten over the belief that it would’ve been simpler for all, better even, if I’d only died in my agony as I was supposed to.
And yet lately – the last few weeks perhaps? – something else has seeped into my soul which I wasn’t prepared for. It’s nowhere near joy, or contentment, or ease. Nothing bounding or extraordinary, no somersaults to land me flat on my back – just a few steps really on what feels like firmer ground. I don’t know why, or perhaps I do and am afraid to say.
I’m not afraid to say that sometimes now I have small daydreams of being with you both – that time Patrick crawled into the laundry hamper to be among the warm clothes; that day I stayed home from work and we all played on the floor of the den in our pyjamas and when Patrick conked out we covered him with a blanket where he was and then slipped off back to bed ourselves.
I know that we had a life and then the inches of metal betrayed us and yet now in the ongoing chaos, the writhing and thrashing about after the fall, I find I can think the first unblistered thoughts about that life again. I have no right to hope, I know – I shut you both out and can blame only myself if the door now is closed on both sides.
But perhaps we can begin with something simple, a lunch maybe. I have a nice spot on Victoria Island. On a good day there’s sun and shade and pretty water, wilderness to look at and civilization too. Maybe before winter there will be room for one warm hour. Call me?
Love, Bill
I spend long hours working and reworking the letter, polishing little phrases, cutting and adding and cutting again. Printing out and rereading, changing and rereading. They feel like the first and only words of hope I’ve ever uttered in my sorry life, and they fill me with dread and wonder. I sign and fold the paper, slip it in an envelope, then take it out and read it again, changing words, going back to the computer. On the screen the words are liquid, unimportant in a way – I can try them out like trying on different clothes. It’s been forever since I’ve uttered such words. Of course, I can’t send it. She’d turn in rage, fling the flimsy paper back in my face, file for divorce before I could take another breath. Where was I on Patrick’s birthday? His first day of school? Could I bother to take him to the museum some Saturday – any Saturday in the last year? Where was I in soccer practice, or when he cried at night because I couldn’t even answer a simple e-mail? Where was I when Maryse was mounting her show and needed help in the kitchen, someone to do a load of laundry, to pass a towel over a dish or two?
Words of love and hope. Flimsy, self-serving, pitiful words. Words of weakness and need, of ache and worry and problems down the road. Another wounded man looking for a nurse. Words of waste and reopened wounds.
Reopened envelopes. I read it again, fiddle, reprint, sign, and think. Of course, I can’t send it. I’ve used up every chance. An honourable man would protect those he loved from further harm. I tear it up and then reread the words on the screen and print out the letter again, sign it, seal and address the envelope. One last chance. An honourable man would have to take it. Because I do have something to give now. Maybe?
It’s just a lunch. It’s just hope and love. It’s just …
I put on my thick jacket and ride the overheated elevator down to the
I don’t know why I’m still here, but we both know the reasons for our separation. Closing the door felt like another death, and yet also filled me with perverse relief – another responsibility I could leave behind, another room to shut off and ignore. Having eaten bitter for so long the smell, the possibility of sweet, was unnerving. I’ve said this before and will say it again – it was never you and Patrick, it was always me floundering in the bog. I’ve never gotten over the belief that it would’ve been simpler for all, better even, if I’d only died in my agony as I was supposed to.
And yet lately – the last few weeks perhaps? – something else has seeped into my soul which I wasn’t prepared for. It’s nowhere near joy, or contentment, or ease. Nothing bounding or extraordinary, no somersaults to land me flat on my back – just a few steps really on what feels like firmer ground. I don’t know why, or perhaps I do and am afraid to say.
I’m not afraid to say that sometimes now I have small daydreams of being with you both – that time Patrick crawled into the laundry hamper to be among the warm clothes; that day I stayed home from work and we all played on the floor of the den in our pyjamas and when Patrick conked out we covered him with a blanket where he was and then slipped off back to bed ourselves.
I know that we had a life and then the inches of metal betrayed us and yet now in the ongoing chaos, the writhing and thrashing about after the fall, I find I can think the first unblistered thoughts about that life again. I have no right to hope, I know – I shut you both out and can blame only myself if the door now is closed on both sides.
But perhaps we can begin with something simple, a lunch maybe. I have a nice spot on Victoria Island. On a good day there’s sun and shade and pretty water, wilderness to look at and civilization too. Maybe before winter there will be room for one warm hour. Call me?
Love, Bill
I spend long hours working and reworking the letter, polishing little phrases, cutting and adding and cutting again. Printing out and rereading, changing and rereading. They feel like the first and only words of hope I’ve ever uttered in my sorry life, and they fill me with dread and wonder. I sign and fold the paper, slip it in an envelope, then take it out and read it again, changing words, going back to the computer. On the screen the words are liquid, unimportant in a way – I can try them out like trying on different clothes. It’s been forever since I’ve uttered such words. Of course, I can’t send it. She’d turn in rage, fling the flimsy paper back in my face, file for divorce before I could take another breath. Where was I on Patrick’s birthday? His first day of school? Could I bother to take him to the museum some Saturday – any Saturday in the last year? Where was I in soccer practice, or when he cried at night because I couldn’t even answer a simple e-mail? Where was I when Maryse was mounting her show and needed help in the kitchen, someone to do a load of laundry, to pass a towel over a dish or two?
Words of love and hope. Flimsy, self-serving, pitiful words. Words of weakness and need, of ache and worry and problems down the road. Another wounded man looking for a nurse. Words of waste and reopened wounds.
Reopened envelopes. I read it again, fiddle, reprint, sign, and think. Of course, I can’t send it. I’ve used up every chance. An honourable man would protect those he loved from further harm. I tear it up and then reread the words on the screen and print out the letter again, sign it, seal and address the envelope. One last chance. An honourable man would have to take it. Because I do have something to give now. Maybe?
It’s just a lunch. It’s just hope and love. It’s just …
I put on my thick jacket and ride the overheated elevator down to the
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