the letters: a short story section II

IV

i found a forever stamp stuck to sofie's foot. it seemed cruel at the time, a sticker touting the promise of eternal communication hanging like a toe tag from the only being i truly talked to, and who, as dark irony would have it, actually expired. at first i cried and then i laughed, all this time i was looking for a stamp and it was stuck to my cat's foot! then i cried some more, perhaps sofie was trying to tell me something, perhaps she desired a more exciting life, perhaps she wanted to travel. i saw her complete with sombrero in Mexico or a long elegant cigarette and beret in France. then i laughed again, thinking of my sweet, little, sofie sipping on creme next to the Eiffel tower. i went on like this, laughing and crying for, well, days. i had, undoubtedly, gone nuts. as i came to this conclusion i realized there was really only one thing to do, i had to write, not only write, i needed to pen my psychotic prose to the only person who would understand it, Caroline.

Dear Caroline,

Sofie's dead.

I haven't been out of the apartment in a long time and I don't foresee myself being at this address very much longer. I never liked the city. I don't know why I've stayed here for so long. I guess I was afraid to move, afraid to try something new. It's a funny thing, familiarity and the predictable, you can be in the most uncomfortable position but live that way forever because just the thought of change is so radically scary that you rationalize and minimize your discomfort. When Sofie died, I realized alot of things. I realized that I am really and truly unhappy and that my unhappiness is not just a consequence of getting older, not a natural progression of life like some emotional menopause, but is, in fact, because I have stopped living.

This seems like a crazy conclusion, how can one stop living? And yet, I have. I don't talk to anyone, I hardly ever leave the apartment, I don't even open the curtains on most days. I'm afraid of the city and I am afraid of people and I am afraid of being alone. I have pretended for so long that the world was just too ugly of a place to participate in and so I didn't participate. I write all these fantasies that no one knows about, I live inside my thoughts. I don't need anyone. I am a rock, I am an island. I have spent so much time inside myself convincing myself it was safer and better to be entirely internal that I ceased to be apart of the world. I would talk to Sofie and sometimes to the plants. When Sofie died, I cried like I haven't cried in years and years. In fact, part of me was overjoyed by the fact that I still knew how to cry, it meant I cared about something, it meant I could still feel. When Sofie died, a part of me woke up, like losing the only being I cared about broke the disillusion.

I'm writing you because I know you'll understand this, because, besides Sofie, you're the only other being I've connected with. I don't just dislike things, though it may seem that way, I want you to know that I like a lot of things. I like to send dust flying off furniture into the sunlight, I like to imagine it's magical, I like to imagine it's the spray of salt and I'm a giant strumming on the sea. I like when the cherry blossom trees bloom and the lichen that hangs onto it's trunk looks like a shaggy, ill-paired prom date. I like the feeling of laying out in the sun, letting your body burn until it's almost too hot to stand then running into the ocean, shocking your senses so that your skin seems to explode into light. I like falling asleep under large oaks and waking to scampering squirrels...

I'm sorry to say this will be my letter as this is my last stamp. I won't be here much longer as I've said, but I do hope this letter finds you well. I want to thank you for being my friend.

With Love,

Rosaylnn

V

if you're thinking that i offed myself in the apartment, while crying tragically over a picture of Sofie and sipping on some pathetic beverage like gin-spiked tea, you are wrong again. although it did take me a few days to pull myself together and arrange a small, private service for sofie, there's a story stored up in this body and it's got someplace to go. i scared up some of my belongings: a pair of dusty, frayed tennis shoes that have a serious phobia of pavement, an over sized denim jacket with an Adonis complex, a pair of worn, corduroy pants with a distinct dislike of being touched and a floppy ball cap convinced it's a top hat in a Ringling Brothers' circus. how i ended up with such troubled and misfit clothing is entirely beyond me and here we are ready (or not) to embark upon the world. i gathered up all the money that i somehow collected over the years and put it in an envelope, i took a map and a compass, about eight pens and two blank notebooks, oh and a picture of sofie; it wouldn't be right to leave her in the apartment by herself.

i stepped outside the door and took pause. my shoes shook on my feet and they tried to kick in the door, but i clutched the door knob tight. i looked at this sweet old couple, door and door handle, what better union is there? i thought about telling them good-bye, but they already knew. there was no point in making a big show of leaving or locking the place up, there was no point in sentimental good-byes; it was simply time to move on.
i walked out onto the streets and suddenly felt very, very sick. who knew there could be so many people in one place? the noise was even louder than i imagined and the pace was so quick, i felt my eyes were being jabbed at with ultra-violet images, felt the sound barreling through my ears and ransacking my mind, felt the hands of the world all over my infant body, like sweaty hands on a perfect balloon, marking me forever. my jacket puffed out in the wind, making itself as big as possible, ready to take on whoever bumped me next. i can't take this, i can't take this, i felt my feet pulling at the ground, soon i was running down the street, the whole while my ball cap screaming, "Rah, lion, rah!"

VI

there is a train station rooted under this pavement and like a timid hobbit, i duck my head and step inside.

"Where to?" a small man asks.

"Someplace out of the city"
he pauses, perhaps he's heard this line before. he waits a moment expecting me to give him more information and upon seeing that i have no more information to give, snippily asks, "such as? do you have a city or state in mind?"

"the country"

"okay, ma'am, this isn't the 1800s, you can't just tell me you want to go to the country and i'll set you up with a horse and buggy. i don't mean to be rude" why do people say that, when they know they're being rude and it's obvious they don't care? "but this is a really busy train station so you're going to need to give me some sort of destination"

life's about the journey not the destination, i think in my head, but knowing that this would probably get me in more trouble, i make something up on the spot, "Ohio"

"Ohio?"

"yes"

"so Cleveland?"

"sure"

"okay, one ticket to Cleveland, Ohio. Anything else?"

VII

cleveland, ohio, cleveland, ohio, cleveland, cleveland, cleveland. i say these two words over and over in my head hoping that sheer repetition will make them feel less alien. but it doesn't help. i sit on a tacky bench and stare at my hands. maybe in my younger years i could do this, up and leave with no real concrete plan of action. but now i'm much too frail for this sort of thing. i don't move as fast, i don't hear so well, i'm weak and tired and clumsy and, well, old. what was i thinking? everything i own is still in that apartment. who's going to take in an old dog like me? i can feel myself beginning to cry. i push back the tears with the fleshiest part of my palm and stand up. you're such a silly old woman, such a silly, silly old woman i tell myself as i make my way to the exit.

"excuse me, Ms. Bight, i believe you dropped this" the young man with droopy eyes that pounded on my door no less than four days ago is holding a polariod. sofie.

"thanks...", i pause waiting for him to fill in the personal information.

"Andrew".

"yes, Andrew, well, thank you". i turn to walk away.

"are you going somewhere?" what a curious question, especially for the city, no one questions such things in the city.

"no, not really"

he jogs up the steps to get closer to me. "it's just i saw you leave your apartment and it seemed like you weren't planning on coming back for a while"

"what gave you that impression?" i say shocked.

"it was the way you held the door, like you were saying good-bye for a long time"

"were you watching me?" i ask defensively.

"not intentionally. i was taking out the trash"

i suddenly feel nervous and continue to walk out of the station.

"have you ever been to central park?" he shouts out.

yet another curious question, "yes, of course"

"i've never been. would you like to go?"

none of this seems real. this young man was surely out to kill me and there was no way in hell i was going to central park alone with him. if i do that, i might as well just run straight into the kitchen knife he probably has hidden under his coat.

"when?" the word slips out of my mouth before i even have time to drown it out with some common sense.

"how about now?"

i look out at my watch. i have a few hours before the train leaves for cleveland. but, no, no, no, this is all wrong! this is crazy, this is suicide!!

"okay" i say. some part of me, i decide, has a death wish.

VIII

"can you believe we've been living next to one another for over five years now and never once spoke more than a few words to one another?"

"yes, i can believe it, very easily in fact"

"i guess that sort of thing is what keeps the city from imploding on itself" he says looking off into the distance like he's tracing a whimsical cloud over the horizon.

"yes"

he scoops down to pick up a green maple leaf that lays listless on the path. his smile is deeply content as he gently places the leaf in between the pages of a small black notebook he has removed from his pocket.

"it's so nice to see green again"

"yes" i don't say much because i don't know what to say. i'm out walking in the biggest city in the United States with a man i don't even know.

"do i make you uncomfortable?" he asks looking quite concerned.

my body shakes but i don't feel afraid of this young man, in fact, part of me feels rather zen-like about the entire thing. i see in him a righteous and pure heart, almost child-like, and a suffering heart all the same, sacred of this world, frustrated at it's imperfections, it's petty squabbles, it's terrorizing greed. he looks, i chuckle to myself, like me.

"not at all. you see, i don't really spend this much time with any one person, never long enough to get past the necessary phrases of basic communication, such as 'hello' 'good-day' 'thank you' and 'you're welcome'. and so, you see, this is a bit of a challenge"

he smiles and exaggerates his steps, i think mostly to keep me from having to hurry. my little old lady legs aren't what they used to be.

"would you like to sit a moment?" he gestures to a bench very poignantly placed under a weeping willow. i feel i'm in a fairytale, that soon i will stepping into a swan boat and Andrew and I will sail into the horizon, the sky scapers giving way to gigantic oaks and majestic white birches. there will be other boats too, carrying young Pilgrim families, complete with old-style bonnets and faces hardened and earthy like russet potatoes. we are headed for a better world, all of us, together. sofie is softly purring in my lap.

i post up against the side rail of the bench and let my arm dangle off the side. in my mind i can feel the water softly bending the surface of my skin, wrapping my finger tips in the softest of silk, and this bench, kept afloat by Andrew's consistent paddling with cupped hands sure and strong enough to deliver babies.

"Ms. Bight, are you alright?"

"oh yes, yes, sorry. i have a tendency to drift sometimes"

"me too"

i notice my scared-y cat shoes are trying to inch up on the bench, but my hips won't
give an inch. who is this man, i wonder.

"who are you?" his head jerks back; i can see i've shocked him.

"that's a mighty big question" he chuckles nervously.

"how old are you?" he looks at me confused.

"37. and you?"

"how old do i look?" i say coyly. was i flirting? is this what an old woman trying desperately to be courted looks like? this has to be the embodiment of pathetic. and yet, the phrase came out of my mouth so quickly, so without hesitation, like this whole conversation had no consequences besides the ones i would draft and implement. i was still in my imagination, still thinking i controlled everything that happens, and yet, i know, well some part of me knows, this is real. i mean, this is real right?

Andrew smiles, "why you don't look a day over 25 my dear" his accent has changed, falling into some sort of whiskey born southern slur.

"the answer's 64" i frown when i hear my words. "but i swear i feel older than that"

he changes the subject and resumes his normal tone, "so what's in Ohio, if you don't mind me asking?"

i don't rightly know, i just said it, in fact, the whole day has been completely and utterly strange to me. i've broken more habits today than i have in last 20 or so years. and i can't quite say why. my mind drifts. i see the open field with long golden wheat. i'm barefoot and floating. my hair is just as golden. sky larks play in the newborn light.

"i have a friend there. she wanted me to visit" i say, hiding my uncertainty. but he sees right through it. perhaps that's why his eyes always look droopy and tired, he can't stop truly seeing. some people will always see the multitudinous matrix of the the world, the innumerable layers of complexity and meaning, and they will be overwhelmed by their own special sight. it is a blessing and a curse to be so acutely aware of the fabric of life. often times people like Andrew live tortured lives, always seeing everything, even when they would rather see nothing. most of us have the ability to filter out excess information, to pare down our experiences, but for Andrew, and i realize now, to a certain degree, for myself, we are tasked with such special sight.

i look at my watch. somehow the hours have quickly withered away and i know i must go.

"well, we should probably head back to the train station. ohio awaits!" he says with a smile.

"Andrew, do you think you'll ever get out of the city?"

"sometimes i think about it" he leaves it at that.

"Andrew, why did you take me to this park?"

"you looked like you needed to talk" he says knowingly.

"thank you"

"you're welcome. by the way, when are you coming back?"

"i don't think i am"

"well in that case, i suppose i should give you my address, so we can keep in touch"

"of course, i would like that"

"um, Ms. Bight?"

"yeah"

"thank you"

"for what?"

"for all the wonderful worlds you'll share with me in the future"

VIII

You would think that by the time you get to be my age you’d have a clearer idea of where you’re going. But the world’s a backwards place, you know less about where you’ll go as you go and the truth is, you often care less about the where than you do about the when. I re-write Andrew’s address in my journal and tuck away the strip of paper with his handwriting on it like a crisp maple leaf.

I'm on my way to Ohio. Life feels exciting and invigorating, which I was sure were emotions reserved for those under the age of forty. Yet, here I am, headed west on the great steam engine of an iron horse. I wonder if I'll see any Indians, of course, I know this to be an entirely ridiculous notion, but whose to say one cannot day dream? "Andrew would know what i'm talking about" i mutter. i clutch my seat, Andrew and I did share a moment, but honestly old woman, how can you expect to know him so intimately as to think you could share the same thoughts? ah, yes, i'm letting this sense of adventure get to my head, i must calm down, such universal connectedness and ohm chanting should be left to the hippies. i look at my hands, wrinkled, baggy things hanging like chiffon dresses that were once in style but whose days had come and gone, their colors faded and their sheen barely reflecting the glint of such elegant dances in ballrooms receding far back, pinned closely to the head of yesteryear.

"mind if i sit here?" a voice breaks up my orchestra of pity-dom. i grunt an affirmative because clearly i'm in much too much distress to utter words. i must appear grouchy to this middle-aged woman, but something tells me she sort of expects it, in fact, she probably has a mother that looks much like me and for whom she cares for out of guilt and obligation. i would even venture to say that she is on this train specifically to visit her mother or to bury her. the clothes are neat enough, reserved and appropriate for her figure. a simple matching pants, matching jacket set, something perhaps a little too old for her, but she's trying to hide the excess weight around her middle which is really a shame. i'll bet she stands in front of the mirror everyday wishing that she could transport these excess lipids to her chest and maybe then she would feel a little more comfortable spending the extra few dollars on a fancy bra instead of on tummy shaping underwear. she is well put together, however, with refined earrings that are not too large but dangle and accentuate her delicate little ears, her hair is short but styled, in fact, seeing how healthy and clean the cut is, one can tell that she sees a hair stylist regularly. she has a disproportionate number of wrinkles on her forehead, reminds me a bit of a city map, all lines and busy intersections, frustration and traffic jams. i take her in thoroughly. of course, all of these thoughts could be wrong.

"are you going to Ohio for business or for pleasure?" i mumble taking the line from daytime TV. then thinking about the possible death of her mother, quickly add, "or for a funeral? that deserves it's own category, considering it's neither business nor pleasure. well, unless it's someone you don't like, but that would still be pretty horrible, or perhaps it's a colleague, so would it be considered business?" i'm quickly digging myself a crazy hole. "i don't know" i fumble.

the woman stares at me with that off put and annoyed look that people give bums in the city. she catches herself and forces a tight smile. "family visit" she manages. i want to pry but know it's not polite. and surprisingly, i resist the urge. something about my nervousness must strike a chord because she asks me "and you? why are you heading to Ohio?"

IX

her name is Isadora and she's just the kind of woman you would like to sit with for a cup of tea. she is pleasant and a wonderful listener, she knows just when to enter with an "uh huh" or "oh gosh" and she can repeat back everything you said in her own words. she's just the kind of woman who, in highschool and college, recieved very high marks on her essays not necessarily for ingenuis intelligence, but for memory and organizational abilities. and yes, she does have a mother but she isn't dead and in fact, according to Isadora, they are the best of friends.

what you might not know about Isadora is that she is married to a realator with a slight speach impedment, something that in their formative years she found unique and somewhat endearing but now she finds aggrivating and intolerable. she has three daughters that all play the piano but none of them are any good. the oldest has a belly button ring that Isadora is waiting for her to proclaim. other than that "there's nothing interesting about my life" she says, well except for today. today Isadora is on her way to see her lover in Ohio. they met online, which she informs me is a quite natural and unremarkable way to meet these days. her husband, she is certain, is "banging some waitress from the local Red Lobster" so she figures all's fair in a loveless marriage.

call me silly but i asked why not get a divorce if the love is gone? "Convience. it's not like either one of us is terribly unhappy and, in fact, the everything that comes with a divorce: the messy paperwork, the angry family, the resentment of my daughters, it's worth living a little lie." i couldn't believe it. i don't think i could ever stand to remain married to someone who didn't love me anymore or who i didn't love anymore. "Peter and I still love each other, in a way. we love what we've built together, love it enough to try to preserve it". "but why preserve something that no longer exists? the relationship has changed, doesn't that make the everything else a lie?" she smiles a knowing smile, "you know, i fought long and hard with those very questions. and the truth is, this lie as you call it, it's our lie, it's our everything and nothing. i can't erase it, i won't throw it out. to throw it out would be to lose a huge part of who i am. you see, and i'm sure you know this, but every relationship you forge you do so under the agreement that you attached yourself to someone, in fact, you've formed a symbiotic relationship. that part of you is no longer just yours. it will always be in consideration of another and so you can't expect that entire self back. you've given it away. Peter and I loved each other once. we loved each other very deeply and i gave a big part of myself to him and vise versa. without Peter, i am only a fraction of myself. you know what i mean?"

i sat quiet for a while. is that really how relationships work? is that really what love means? i loved sofie and when she left i felt a part of myself leave with her, but i didn't feel less whole. i just felt changed. "i don't think that i do. i know that i loved and my love has left this earth. for a while i felt incomplete, floating, directionless, but then i came to realize that i was not fractured, just changed"

Isadora looks at me as if she had been deaf her entire life and had heard her first sound. she frowns, "love is not that simple". "some love is". we sit silent for a long time. she fidgets with her purse and after zipping and unzipping it several times turns to me and asks, "how have you been able to maintain such an idealistic view of love?" i was confused. i never, ever thought i was an idealist in any way especially an idealist in matters of the heart. but it made sense, i had never loved anyone mean or who had the capacity to be mean. there are very few things in life that i love and so i reserve that word for only the most pure of life. "i only loved once" i replied, "my cat, sofie. she was never mean and she never made me feel more or less than what i was. she was pure and her purity made me feel ideal. that is how i see love"

Isadora began to cry. i wanted to comfort her but i wasn't sure what that would mean so i just let her cry, i let her cry all the way to Ohio.