Letter No. 9
J,
I read a story that made me think of you and Maria. The two characters in the story grew up together and had always wanted to date each other. Timing was not on their side. I was reading the chapter where the woman called the man late at night and they had phone sex. At this point of their relationship, both were partnered up. I slid my bookmark in and put away the book.
I’d like to share that all of your exes attended your funeral. I experienced their love for you. Your sister insisted that I stood and sat next to her. So I did. I shook the hands of people I didn’t know, and received hugs that I wasn’t sure belonged to me. No words were coming out of me and no one asked questions. Your sister did the talking. I stood there, mechanically shaking hands and kissing cheeks. She would periodically hold my hand and squeeze it. She has warm hands, just like you.
Maria came right on time in a black pantsuit. Her straight black hair and her stilettos heels made her look undeniably powerful and confident. Her hair was so shiny and perfect that I forgot what I was doing – shaking hands and kissing cheeks. She flew from Marrakesh to say goodbye. When she was kissing my left cheek, I opened my mouth and muttered, “thank you for coming.” And she gave me a long hug. I wanted to break down and melt into her arms and cry. She seemed like someone who could hold me at the time. But she smelled like you. Our hug was oddly fantastic and just what I needed. My body decided to not break down, not then, not in Maria’s arms, not in front of a woman who smelled like you. I find that moment out of character for me. I am very proud of my body’s timely executive decision.
I tried to befriend Maria. I couldn’t. She will forever have access to parts of your history that I don’t. I am uncertain if I am jealous of her or jealous of what you two had. I don’t have a witness who knows my history. I don’t have someone who could say, “Bullshit. That’s not how I remembered it!” I have no continuity.
I am glad you two remained friends. I am equally glad that she lives in Morocco. Your history is in a far away land where the sun shines most of the time.
Today’s one of those days where I am jealous of my dead boyfriend’s lifelong girl friend. What does that say about me as a person? Oh, well… imperfect is the perfect, my love.
H
