The problem is that it�s so hard to get out. It sticks in the mouth and clogs the throat like the taste of wood resin�raw and pungent and clinging. The power-saw scream of it assaults the ears, tears open gaps badly filled and imperfectly mended, sends splinters screaming into the furthest recesses of memory to join those already buried in places festering for nearly thirty years. The problem is that once out, it can never be recalled. All that pain, and yet more as it hangs in the air accusingly like the dust cloud of a cut gone horribly awry.
Still, the deed must be done before the wound can be filled, sanded smooth, varnished over. So be it.
The unvarnished truth is that I was happy and content and excited about our future. As Christmas approached, I secretly hoped that a ring was in the works, that the yuletide celebration would bring our relationship to a new level. I could envision myself loving you for the rest of our lives, making a family together, making a home together. Then came that night, and the dream shattered.
I would like to say that I told you the truth. We both know I didn�t. I never made it to the cemetery to visit his grave; I never even tried. I didn�t miss my father. I used his memory as carelessly and conveniently as he had once used me. I took his web of lies and added my own, skillfully weaving a plausible tale onto a tattered framework of despicable and tawdry deceptions. I lied. I was with him. You know who.
We were at the Mug, as usual. Ladies night, like the one when we met. You and Kenneth were playing pool; I was lapping up free beer. Not quite inebriated, hardly sober. He came and sat down at my table. Said he missed me; said he�d been looking for me; said who knows what? Does it matter? He showed me the necklace, said �I still have it. I still wear it. I think of you.� Our eyes met and I lost you.
I would like to say I went to the cemetery. I�d like to say I went there and cursed my father for his sins, for causing me to confuse sex with love. That would be varnish and this truth must be bare. I was too young to recognize deceit, too tainted to understand the difference between love and lust. I went to him; I laid with him. I tried, once again, desperately and for the last time, to make him love me. I cast you off like scrap wood. With my twisted dreams I stoked the fire of the hell my father built for me. As unvarnished as it comes.
Later, we tried again. I was ashamed. You were jaded. Who could blame you. We were together just long enough to create the best of both of us.
That pithy chunk of truth isn�t all. This must be told totally and unblemished. The wound must thoroughly cleaned and smoothed, sealed against further rot: I suffered too. For nearly thirty years, I tried to put you behind me and failed. I dreamed of you; lived a lifetime with you through my dreams. I thought of you, marked your birthdays, occasionally contacted you. I sent you pictures of our girl. I arranged a meeting with your grandchildren. I asked you for forgiveness for hurting you, and you forgave. Still, you remained in my thoughts, my dreams, my prayers. I loved you. I had never stopped loving you. I looked in your eyes and, despite the passing years, the ravaging of drugs, I still saw the same red-headed young man that had taken my breath away so many years past.
It was too late for the white wedding, the family, the dreams of long ago. I had hoped it was not too late for us, but the passing of years changed too much. I�m set in my ways, you are too�but there�s more. You�ve become stuck in time. There�s no fire, no curiosity, no desire to grow. The meaningless drone of TV reruns fills your days and nights. Worse, whatever spark it was that made you someone I loved has been totally obliterated. The tender streak behind the coldness; the genuineness behind the laughter are gone. Your world consists of opportunities taken or wasted�you�re not one to waste anything.
Were you always like that? I'll never know, but I don't think so. There was love in those eyes once.
That was three years ago. The wound has been finally cleaned and cauterized. The hole is filled, sanded and varnished over. You can barely see the damage. Each year, a day or so after July 18, I�ll suddenly realize I forgot your birthday. I�d like to say that the annual thought creates no ripple in my subconscious. But your picture is still there in the frame, among the rest. Sap occasionally oozes from the careful repair. Even now, the varnish fails.
OBK July 21, 2006
