Monday, September 15, 2008

I'll write you a letter tomorrow. Tonight, I don't have a pen.

If I had all the money in the world, I would buy you that huge mansion up on the hill, the one with the Greek columns and the air of success and contentment floating about its doorsteps (of which there are four). I would hire a moving team to transport you and your family and all of your belongings to this new mansion and help settle you in and set things up just how you want them. I would be that generous so that I wouldn't have to drive past your house every day on the way to and from the three jobs and twenty credits I have taken upon myself in order to try and distract me from losing you.

I'd pay someone (probably Scott) five thousand dollars to steal your car and drive it in the lake. But I wouldn't leave you car-less; I would get you the exact same model of the Hyundai that you used to have that your sister smashed to hell, the car that you loved so much and whose brake pads didn't cost $300 to replace and I would make sure it's a different color than the dark red of your current car so that I wouldn't automatically assume that every dark red sedan that passes me, going in the opposite direction of me (there's a rich thematic notion), is you going to somewhere that I am not.

For that matter, I'd pay for plastic surgery for you. A complete makeover. Not that you need one, to be certain--I have never seen a face as warm and inspiring in its beauty as yours--but I would have them re-size the nose that I used to pepper with late-night (or early morning) kisses like powdered sugar. I'd ask the surgeon to make your lips bigger, to make them unrecognizable from the ones that would whisper "I love you" into mine just when I needed to hear it.

Or maybe I'd just buy myself a plane and use it to go to Antarctica or Siberia or somewhere very, very cold, somewhere that I know I wouldn't run into you as you and the man with whom you will eventually come to fall in love going on a quick transcontinental getaway with your two children (one adopted), who would smile kindly and introduce themselves with the names that you always wanted and towards which I may have been less than enthusiastic.

Hell, I'd even snatch up all the trains in the world so that I could keep you off of them. I could travel around the country exclusively by rail so that I had no chance of encountering you in a brief, fateful evening that we'd spend in a passenger car, our memories and passions recombined by a desperate longing for what once was, an obvious endorsement by Fate, and the half a bottle of vodka that I will have been nipping at all evening to try and blur my memory just enough to make myself forget how your eyes glow like a midwestern sunrise when they'd lock in with mine.

Or maybe I’d just get a goddamned lobotomy and give the rest of my money to Tom Waits and Nick Cave. It would be a hell of a lot simpler. And wouldn’t require your signature.

2 comments:

Amy said...

you know i love this.

Samantha said...

Despite the fact that you wrote this when in pain, it's still a beautiful piece of writing. It touched me right here < points to center of chest >