Love and Will by Stephen Dixon Page A

But enough of me and our city. Let’s get down to what I brought you here to tell you. Because you’re quite comfortable now, right? Pleasant temperature in the room. Pleasant room. It is a pleasant room, isn’t it? Designed the entire place myself. Rebuilt the walls and mixed the paints to get that color which I’m wondering if you find too bright or even like. And the lights? They also too bright? I can turn them down. Turn them off even, which wouldn’t be too smart to do, though we’d still have the little light from the stereo. At least sufficient light from it to find the wall switch. Furniture’s all mine too, built from scratch. From wood, actually, but you knew what I meant. Everyone’s allowed a little joke, even before the crematorium. So here we are. Pleasant temperature and room, agreed? And I hope you know that was a statement about the joke in general and not a joke about the crematorium. Cool drink in your hand. Like a refill? I won’t go around calling you a heavy drinker. I usually like a quick one myself and then to linger over the second for half an hour or more. Though linger over your second, if you have one, for fifteen minutes or ten or even five if you like. Or finish your first, knock down the second and linger over a third. Whatever you wish. While you’re here, my home is yours. I’ll get you that refill. No bother. There. Cool drink again. Music—too loud or do you even like this piece? I’ll change it if you want. To viola, solo piano, anything with voice or strings. Something more modern or jazzier, I have those too. Fine. Music. Room. Temperature and drink. Pleasant everything. Best part of the couch. Cat and newspaper out of the room. And you’re still not sneezing anymore. So I suppose it was the newspaper you were allergic to, if you don’t sneeze here again, or a delayed end of allergic reaction to the cat.
    But what I practically had to drag you here to tell you about. That’s what I now have to speak to you about. That’s what I think is foremost in my mind. It is. I don’t just think so but know. Unbelievably important. But come in. Sit down. Over here. Make yourself comfortable. You are comfortable. You are here and sitting in this room. All that’s true. In the best seat in the house. And I’m sitting here lingering over a drink and being comfortable across from you. Anyway, what was it again I had to talk to you about? Suddenly I forgot. I’m sure I can remember it if I try. Let me think. I’m trying. I can’t remember. No bother. Drink up and if you don’t want another and I can’t remember before you leave what I wanted so urgently to tell you, I know we can save it for another time.

Gifts
    I wrote a novel for Sarah and sent it to her. She wrote back “For me? How sweet. Nobody has ever done anything or presented me with anything near to what you’ve just given me. I’ll treasure it always. I must confess I might not get around to reading it immediately, since I am tied up to my neck and beyond with things I’m forced to do first. But I can’t describe my pleasure in receiving this and the overwhelming gratitude I’ll always have in knowing it was written especially for me.”
    I painted a series of paintings and crated and shipped them to her and she wrote back “Are these really all for me? I only looked in one of them and it said ‘1st of a series of 15,’ and I counted the other crates and came up with fourteen more and thought ‘My God, I have the entire series.’ You can’t imagine how this gift moves me. I’ll open the rest of the crates as soon as I find the time, as I have been unrelievedly busy these past few days and will be for weeks. The one I did open I’ll hang above my fireplace if I can find the space among my other paintings and prints. Meanwhile, it’s safely tucked away in a closet, so don’t fear