Gambler

The package arrives promptly at 10:00 AM on Tuesday, but you barely react when the drone's tone sounds at the front door. The two cups of Earl Grey on the coffee table have gone cold. One is mostly empty, drunk half-heartedly, but the second is still full, made accidentally by habit. Sitting on the futon couch, with eyes glued to the television, your face has set like concrete into a permanently pained expression. Every wrinkle and every white hair on your body is grieving.

It's a cruel experience is grief. It eats away at people, paralysing them, and not even sparing them the chance to express it fully. When all you want to do is cry, grief won't even let you do that. So instead you sit there, with dry eyes and a blank face, trying to distract yourself from reality, and failing miserably.

On the television, a young news presenter is enthusiastically reporting a story about Amazon's 40th year since establishment, but you're not listening. Not really.

It's not until the afternoon that curiosity finally gets the better of you and you hobble over to the entryway to investigate. The package is exquisitely unremarkable in its existence. It's a small carboard box with your name and address clearly printed on it, and a "Delivered by Amazon Air" sticker stuck on the side, but nothing else. Plodding past the living room towards the kitchen, package in hand, you mutter into one of the smart home microphones as you pass the shelf it's sitting on.

"Hey Alexa," you say, eyes still locked onto the mysterious package. "Turn off TV."

You plop the box down on the kitchen table somewhat unenthusiastically, but there's a dull sense of excitement there too. It's nagging at you, but you ignore it and reach for the kitchen scissors.

Three envelopes, that's what's inside. Each of them has been numbered from one to three. The second is heavier than the others, but being the mildly problematic and slightly unusual man you've always been, you decide to start with envelope number three.

Dear Vince,

I figured you'd open this one first, you always did try to catch me off guard like that. Nice try.

I wrote these letters before I passed because, as you always tended to with other things in the past, I know you've probably taken my departure to heart (wow, that makes me sound so self-important, but you know what I mean). You better not just be sitting around the living room drinking tea and watching trash TV. There's more to life than grieving, Vince.

Get off your arse and get back out there. Book that flight to the Netherlands, take a French class, hell - go skydiving if you can.

You're still seventy years young after all.

I've been thinking about our life together a lot lately (as one does when there's is about to end). Remember when we met at the casino almost fifty years ago? You caught my eye at the bar when I overheard you complaining to your friend about how you were "destined to be alone and single forever" and not by choice. I slid two $1 chips across the counter and smiled my best smile.

"Wanna bet?"

Those words became a whole lot more than just a cheesey pickup line though. A whole lot more.

I'm so sorry I had to leave you, but things will be ok. I promise you that.

Love,

Charlie.

P.S Stop trying to open the letters in the wrong order.

There's a smile spreading across your lips, but you smother it quickly. It's strange how determined you are to be pessimistic in times of sadness. Impatient, but also somewhat intrigued, you slice open the envelope labelled "one".

Dear Vince,

I told you to stop trying to open these in the wrong order.

Well, luckily for the both of us, this is actually the second letter (so hopefully you actually did open them in the order I expected you to, otherwise this is incredibly embarrassing for me and I'm probably rolling in my grave as you read this).

I was thinking today about how I could make sure you were ok after I was gone and it got me thinking about our early days. Do you remember when your Dad reacted poorly to the news of our relationship? He said some awful things, and it truly broke you. I still recall the half drunk conversation we had about it on your kitchen floor. We sat there on the tiles for what felt like hours, marinating in the melancholy while you vented.

"He's stubborn, and traditional, and so, so, so sheltered. He's never going to come around, he'll never understand, and I'll never be able to get through this."

Gosh you were pessimistic, but I mean, it was understandable. Times like that can make it feel like the whole world is against you, and I suppose, for people like us, those times weren't so rare. But alas, things could only get better. I pulled the two chips from my pocket and slid them across the tiles towards you, trying not to laugh or cringe as I said the words.

"Wanna bet?"

You laughed - victory. Even though you didn't want to admit it, I think you knew things were going to be ok, and hearing those words just forced you to accept it because, as a chronic gambler, I never lost a bet - and to this day, I still don't believe I have.

It took almost two years before your father finally accepted us. But he did, and I kept my chips. Every time after that, when you would tell me you'd never get over something, I'd always have those two chips in hand, ready to place my bets because I knew you were stronger than you ever gave yourself credit for.

Anyway, given that you're likely still the same stubborn, amazing, slightly-overdramatic, intelligent, pessimistic man I married almost forty years ago, I imagine reading these letters won't have achieved much in terms of trying to snap you out of your misery.

So in hopes of doing just that, I also made a few minor changes to the smart home system before I kicked the bucket. Call out to me and you'll see what I mean.

Love,

Charlie.

You pause for a moment, slightly confused with what the letter was talking about, and then decide to give it a try.

"Hey, Charlie?" you call in a quiet and slightly reserved tone. Your voice has a slight crackle to it, likely because these are the first words you've spoken since the funeral almost a week ago, besides your brief interaction with Alexa.

There's an eerie silence for a moment, and then suddenly a voice, my voice, responds through the speakers.

"Hey, Vince. I'm here - sort of. I pre-recorded my voice onto the system on the days I wasn't too busy, well, dying of The Big C Word. I figured you'd take my lectures more seriously if you heard them in person. Plus, I added a few extra prompts to the system as well. You'll see what I mean. Hopefully you've actually read the letters, otherwise you're probably standing there wondering what the hell is going on. Anyway, I hope this works, but if it doesn't - just know I love you, you're a spectacular man, but if you don't quit moping around, I am absolutely going to find a way to come back and haunt you."

You chuckle at that last part, but the smile disintegrates almost immediately. You have the same look in your eyes now as you did the last time you saw me. It's that hopeless, empty stare you had when my monitor's rhythmic beeps faded to monotone. It's the look one has when they surrender themselves to grief.

Still standing at the kitchen counter beside the box, your lethargic fingers tease at the third envelope before angrily tearing off the end in frustration.

"Thanks, Charlie..." you sob, closing your eyes. "But it's not you. Not really... It feels like you're here, but you're not... I'll never be able to get through this..."

Your voice trails off as the grief drags you under once more. These are the first tears you've cried since I died, and there's a sense of relief that comes with them, as though now you finally have permission to fully retire yourself to this misery. But you've underestimated how well I knew you.

When you know someone for this long, no - when you love someone for this long - you get to know every single one of their quirky behaviours and trains of thought as though they were your own. Before I passed I knew, based on a lifetime of experiences, that this was exactly how you would respond to my message.

Your blurry eyes wander back down to the third envelope, and you peer inside through the torn edge. Two $1 chips stare back at you, and the smart system responds in my voice once more.

"Wanna bet?" I say.

You're going to be just fine.