“He does,” Skip finished. “He needs to face the music.”
I realized that I might not ever see Sanders again. Wasn’t that what I wanted? Maintaining control over my life had always been so important. I stared into the final sliver of light before it evaporated into dusk. I didn’t know what I wanted anymore.
* * *
Sanders
The boxes staredat me for over a week. Not that time mattered. Not that anything mattered. I was alone. My best friend was mad at me. The love of my life pushed me away. Yeah. I said that.
LOVE OF MY LIFE.
I glared at the boxes. The stack of old and worn ones. The stack of new and freshly taped ones. All of them sat staring at me, silently judging, waiting for me to make progress, from the corner of the downtown Denver loft I shared with Skip. The loft I used to share. The day he came back from Green Valley, he told me he was moving out.
I was growing to hate those boxes and everything they represented. A daunting task was ahead of me but I would open them. I would deal with my father’s death once and for all. I would be okay. I had already scheduled my first therapy session for next week. I needed to learn how to stop running and start processing the deep pain the loss of both parents has left in me, no matter how I tried to hide it.
With a final bracing breath, I stepped toward the boxes of Dad’s stuff. My hands shook as I opened the first few things. The first boxes contained old clothes that could be donated or thrown away and a few trinkets I would hold on to. I even found a few old newspapers that had featured about Outside the Box. Then came the pictures. Lots of pictures. Pictures that caused a pain to shoot into my chest with such sudden force, it felt splintered and shattered, like a wrecking ball hitting a windshield.
I had no idea he had all of these. Mom and Dad. Dad holding me on his shoulders with the western coast of Perth behind us. The three of us grinning like fools at the camera. Another of Skip and me as non-smiling teens.
Pictures from a time I would never get back. Pictures of the pure, innocent love a child has for a parent that I would never feel again. Getting older was so hard. Growing up, you never knew you were living in the best moments until you looked back. Or maybe it was looking back on them through the lens of your current life that made them the best. The longing for something I could never have back hurt so physically, I thought I might never take a full breath again.
I loosed a shuddering sigh and sat back.
There was one last box. A small cigar box, completely worn on the edges so the cardboard layers showed. It was wrapped in dry-rotting rubber bands that crumbled away as it opened.
“What’s this?” I asked the empty room.
Inside there were letters in dozens of unsealed envelopes simply addressed to “Eleanor.” They weren’t worn but they were yellowed with age.
I slowly unfold the first one, holding it with reverence that I instinctively understood it deserved.
The date at the top of letter was exactly one month after my mom died. Her birthday.
My hands shook as I read the first one.
Eleanor,
Happy Birthday, wherever you are. I never really put a lot of thought into the afterlife but now I pray every night for a place where I will hold you again. I miss you so much. Every morning I wake up and I have an instant where I wish I dreamt everything. Then I remember the truth and I don’t think I can even breathe.
Then Sanders comes tumbling into the room and I smile for you. For him.
I don’t know if I can do this without you. I’m not strong enough. I thought it would start to get easier but it hasn’t. It hurts more every day, in different ways. Sometimes I feel so angry I think I’m going to burn something to the ground. Some days I’m sure I won’t be able to get out of bed ever again.
I stopped reading when the words blurred in front of me. I wiped my eyes on the sleeve of my shirt, feeling such intense pain. A physical blade. Sharp enough to cut me into pieces.
I grabbed a different letter and forced myself to read on. No more running. Just confronting this pain head-on. This one was dated a few years later, also on her birthday.
I know it’s silly to write these letters to you. I look forward to it now. It reminds me of when I was your Farmer Charmer trying to court you and I had to sneak letters past your dad. I felt like I was able to be myself more in those letters. Talk more freely than I could in person. I hope Sanders isn’t afraid to share his feelings. I try to impress on him that it’s okay to feel things and not hold on to them. Sometimes he seems so okay and other times I know he’s hurting. He feels so deeply. He’s such a sweet and strong boy, that kiddo of ours. You wouldn’t believe how he’s grown.
Skip lives with us now too. I couldn’t see the bruises anymore and stand by. That poor boy. I went to his good-for-nothing father’s house…
I read on and on. Letter after letter as my body shook with sobs I tried to hold back. I had to stop several times to blow my nose and take a few deep breaths.
I never knew he felt so much. I never knew he hurt so bad. He had tried so hard to be strong for me. He loved her so much. It never weakened. It never stopped. I understood that he had been trying to teach me to accept the pain as it came, not to run from it.
Boy, was my new therapist going to have a lot to unpack with me next week.
I don’t think I’ll ever love again. At least now how I love you. I think a lot about the first time I saw you. You never believed me but I knew it the moment I saw you. I knew that if I didn’t get your name, I’d go crazy. I was a stupid American and you were way too good for me but I took a chance. And then I never let you go. I wasn’t the smartest. I wasn’t the most handsome. But I had something none of those other fellas had: a secret weapon. I knew, without a doubt nobody would ever love you as much as I did. It was that simple for me.
