Love is a perilous and wonderful thing... but it comes with a price.
Day 23
Fifty Nine
(established ?/Toby)
Dear Toby,
Today I wrote you the last letter you'll ever get from me. It's not very long, I'm afraid. We've had a lifetime to say things to each other, so there wasn't much left. It might not even be very interesting to you, but it was important.
I'm reading it to you now. I hope you can hear me. Of course, whilst it's the last letter you'll ever get, I'm sure it's not the last letter I'll ever write to you. Habits aren't easily broken.
Hiro and Alex are on the flight from America right now, and Hiro said they'll be here by midnight tonight. Don't worry, I know what you're thinking. The grandchildren are staying with a friend of Alex's, and they send all their love. I think you'd agree that they should remember Granddad as you were when we went to visit them at Christmas, happy and healthy and teaching Tom how to do trick flips off of the side of the dish in the back garden.
My grandmother used to say that it's the silly things you remember. I remember our wedding day. Not the vows, though they are more true in this moment than they ever will be again. Not the talk that Ryo Hagane did. I just remember how you took my hand to put the ring on it, and your hands were shaking. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just me.
I don't remember very much about the next four years, except the way that you liked to eat grapefruit with a knife and fork, for some reason. What a silly thing to think of! My head knows that those four years were so much more than that, but that's the only thing I can recall.
But I do remember your face when you held Hiro in your arms for the first time. I remember because it was the same expression on your face when you sat in the front seats at his and Alex's wedding, and on the day that you first met our grandchildren.
And I remember, a long time ago, the first time that you went into hospital when your sickness came back, you asked Alex to sing to you – to sing you to sleep, if you weren't going to make it back the next time.
The doctors say it's just a matter of time now. Your mind and body have pretty much shut down, and only the machines are keeping you alive. But you won't feel anything. No pain. No struggle. They've made sure you're comfortable. It's all they can do now.
But I wanted to do one more thing for you. So, just in case Alex is delayed, I'll sing for you instead, as soon as I've finished reading this letter. I know my voice is pretty scratchy, but you've loved music for so much of your life that it doesn't seem right to send you on your way without it. I don't need to tell you which song.
I've been staring at this piece of paper for nearly an hour since finishing that last paragraph, and I haven't managed to think of something else to say. Perhaps it's because I'm talking to you, not with you.
There's only a couple more things I even want to say, and none of them translate very well into words. But I think you already know that.
So thank you for mornings that smelled of slightly burned coffee. Thank you for never throwing out that coat. Thank you for fifty-nine wonderful years.
They weren't the best years of my life.
They were my life.
So just let go. You can sleep now. I am here, and I wish you only the best.
Goodnight, sweetheart.
All my love,
Your Madoka