 Things to Say |
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Sometimes there are things I want to tell him. Like how I drove past the blue house, the blue house with the blue fence that I screamed about so loudly when I first saw it that a McFlurry flew across the car, and that the woman who lives in the blue house has blue hair. Bright blue hair! And how I read an article today about how a woman died from a fall from a roller coaster and THAT'S why I never wanted to go to stupid Fun Fair Park. And about Daisy and her expressed booty. And how I still only sleep on one side of the bed. And about how his kitties are doing, and how I talk to them like they're people, and remind them that I'm going to take care of them no matter what and never leave them. How I tell Khaki when she crawls half-heartedly onto my chest at night, "I know you miss your pop's chest. He had to go. I'm sure he misses you a lot, too. Don't worry." And how it seems perfectly weird and perfectly normal to tell her such things. How Khaki never stretches out her front paws when I pick her up like she did for him. I want to remind him of all the nicknames we ever had for them. Khaki, the Khakinator, Khakalack, Khakattack, Khakilene, Khak-khak, Khakilenus, Khakilicious, Khakalacka Hi Khaka Hiney Ho. Marley, Marlene, Marlenus, Marlenius, Marlicious, Spy Kitty, Tub Tub, Tubby Too Too, Tubbilicious. Daisy, Daisy Doo, Daisy Mae, Daisy Doodle. Zuko, Zuke-Zuke, Z-Dog, Zukie. About how I know that Daisy and Khaki will probably never love me as much as they loved him, even though they love me a whole lot. That I wonder if they wonder where he's gone. That I'm trying to be enough family for all of them ... even though four animals sometimes seems like too much for one girl. I want to tell him that the new neighbors are still nowhere near as nice as the old ones. I want to tell him how strange it was to watch the season premiere of The Amazing Race without him. I want to tell him about the hard times my friends are having and get his advice on how to try and help them. I want him to tell me it's all going to be okay. I want to tell him how most of the plants and flowers and trees that he planted and potted are screaming and fighting to stay alive even though Daisy digs in their pots and Zuko pees on them and the cats chew on their leaves and they're starved for water from the spring drought and even though I have no idea how to take care of them and know nothing about white flies or sunniness or shade. How one of the hostas is still alive and how the Acoma is blooming. One of his lilies bloomed like fire. I want him to know that I water the plants and the flowers and that I bought two sprinklers to try and keep them alive. It's not their fault. They want to live. I can tell. 
I want to tell him that I'm going to the reunion and that I'm going to try to hold my head up high. I want to tell him how I felt when they caught the serial killer. I want to tell him that my little brother has a new girlfriend and about my sister's song that she wrote about being alive. I want to tell him that he made me feel imminently more beautiful when I was twenty-five pounds heavier than I feel today. I want to tell him that the plumeria that he grew me for my birthday last year died. It was putting out new growth, and I thought it was okay, and I tried to save it, but it withered and turned black and died. 
I want to tell him that none of it feels real anymore. It almost feels like none of it ever happened. That it was all some kind of waking dream. I want to tell him that sometimes I remember his skin and his smell so vividly that I can't breathe. I want to tell him that I sang "You Can't Get a Man with a Gun" and "How Lovely to Be a Woman" at the top of my lungs on the way to work this morning. That I keep trying to stop listening to The Last Five Years, but I can't. The same songs, over and over.
If I didn't believe in you,
Over and over. I want to tell him that I know he didn't want to hurt me. I want to tell him that I know that it could have been worse. I want to tell him I wish him misery and pain. I want to tell him that I know he's a good person. I want to tell him that I wish I had never known him. I want to thank him for loving me hard and letting me go. But I can't. Not because some or all of that isn't true or because some or all of it is. I just can't. Because I don't think we're ever going to talk again. I don't think I want to. I'm fairly positive that he doesn't. So I just tell myself. That my life was not ruined. That life is precious. That I am precious. And blessed. And that I want to savor life because it's short, and houses burn down and people get sick and die and I am so lucky. And that Zuko still likes to roll on the rug to scratch his back. That the animals and I are going to be okay. That we are okay.
© Copyright 2003 elb |
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