Seek the Road
"Yes, my soul, find rest in God; my hope comes from Him. Truly He is my rock and my salvation; He is my fortress, I will not be shaken."
-Psalm 62: 5-6
Dedicated to a thirteen year old girl.
I received your letter this morning.
Upon reading it, I discovered two senses as I sat in an upholstered chair in a cleaning procrastinator's home. First grief, then serenity. They happened so simultaneously that if you were here, I might appear as if I were in need of medical assistance.
Outside my window, it is raining, it's steady but not too ambitious. Like a child who's so eager to get started with adult responsibility, I tell it: 'Wait! Stay right here for a moment. You're prefect just like this.'
A fly managed to enter from somewhere, he's sitting on my windowsill as if he's waiting to hear me recite a poem of yours. I know you were fond of it, poetry. You called it 'the music of love, the voice of a dreamer, and the words of someone who cares'.
Poetry. You loved it so.
I smile, but then I come to the recollection that you hate rain. You find it repulsive and depressing, you said once about it, 'It brings about the worst mood in me because of what happened.'
Was not what happened dear sir called life? You cannot control your present condition. You were tested, you were deemed 'insane' and the doctor who prescribed you this insanity pill also advised me to 'stay clear of rain' as if that were a symptom of your murderous psychopathy.
Rain. You always hated it. You screamed at it once, promulgating that was her crying not out of pain from missing or loving you, but that she was crying out of spite. I don't think you understand how the weather works. If she were crying in spite, then a flood would've occurred and you would've have been dead years ago.
Still, it doesn't change anything.
Just because you hate rain and I miss you terribly does not change the fact that it is still raining.
That fly on the windowsill left like a player on the boards. Finishing his monologue, ending the play that will propel his career. Can you imagine that? A fly being an actor? Sounds ludicrous. Then again, so are a lot of things.
Why you wrote me a letter dating it today when you clearly wrote it a week ago, that was ludicrous.
The conversation of it between me and the messenger who delivered it was brief. I said who the letter was from and he stated your name in an apologetic, sympathetic way, apparently he thought I knew.
In a strange sort of way I did, for why would you send a messenger in the rain to deliver a letter to me when you hate rain that much?
By the time you read this,
A clichéd statement commonly related to hopelessness.
I will be dead.
The four word sentence that grabbed my attention. I scanned toward the bottom to see if it was sincere instead of some cruel sadistic joke. When I saw your name and the pact we made when ending every letter and conversation, I knew it was legitimate.
Seek the Road.
I came in and sat down after that. I read the transcript over and over memorizing every last detail, every punctuation, every beat. It was a beautiful last confession and it was a beautiful will. If you wish me to have the things requested that I take, then I will take them in good stride and good faith knowing that at least your mother and your guilty conscious won't be bothering you anymore.
I weep deeply for you because I know that you made a grave mistake but I won't chastise it any further- you stood by it and although I don't agree with your justification I can at least know that it is raining outside and no matter what, you'll always hate it.
Rain, it's steady but not too ambitious. Remember the time when we were children and I was visiting your place when it began to storm? You were so frightened! I remember pulling you out into the thick of it saying, 'It's only rain!' We of course rushed back inside once the lighting hit but it was a comical relief from the dramatics of a thespian storm. Although we were out there for a brief moment, I saw your fear wipe away. I don't know if was because I was there or you simply had an epiphany but whatever the case there was a point where you understood that the water that falls from the sky is simply that. Water. Most of the time it doesn't get to horrific devastating levels, but when it does, I'll know who to call. Only then will your phobia have some use. Until then, understand that it is irrational. It is only rain.
I doubt I will fully be able to say goodbye to you, for it can easily be expressed that I loved you. Not in a romantic or sentimental way but were a band of brothers. You, Tilden, and Me. Do you remember him much? He died just before your mother, I was so ate over it I couldn't breathe for about an hour. I remember you came over and told me to eat something and then afterwards rest, for 'napping is a good way to dream away grief' you said.
I guess you're taking your own advice then.
I won't pest you any further. Oh, by the way, it stopped raining.
Author's Note: There's always a way out. You're never alone, and you never were.