Golden Eyes

It’s darker than I thought it would be. Much colder too. But then again, who really thinks of these situations beforehand? I hadn’t, really. Well…I guess with Mom I’d —

No. I don’t want to think about that yet. Not here. I’d rather think of so many other things.

I’d rather think of you.

You were such a surprise. I remember when you first looked at me — my eyes burrowed straight into yours. For a moment, I was thankful for my inability to look at anything but you. What a sight you were. Not my usual type, no. That auburn hair, a slight dusting of freckles across your handsome nose (who knew a nose could be considered handsome?), and those eyes…I’d never seen such a shock of gold sweeping through a pair of irises.

Golden eyes.

That’s what you have.

And though those golden eyes looked particularly sad as they met my own, I could see the genuine heart-racing happiness they’d experienced, as well. I must say, your line of work is astoundingly macabre, but I could tell you are, at heart, a remarkably cheerful man.

You are a happy person.

Perhaps it’s the dichotomy of your life — the harsh nature of your day job, but the potential levity of your off-hours. The time you spend at work brings gratitude and humility to your personal life. You are astoundingly well-rounded, I suspect. Of course you are, you’re practically perfect.

I didn’t see a ring the first time you took me out, but you looked to be around my age. You must have a girlfriend, but I won’t dwell on that possibility. I’ll never know, after all. So for now, Golden Eyes, you are single as could be — free as a bird. And for now, there’s a possibility. For now, I can tell you everything.

I haven’t seen your smile, though these past few days in here have allowed me time to fill in the gap.

Maybe you have one.

I always loved gaps in teeth — les dents du bonheur, as the French say.

Direct translation: Lucky teeth.

You most definitely have lucky teeth and I love them already.

You indeed have a wonderful family, too. Your parents are still married and obviously, you’re the youngest. You have three older sisters so you’re an expert when it comes to women. You understand us — you can be trusted. I knew that immediately.

That’s why, though I’d never been naked in front of anyone on the first date (is it alright if I call it that?), I felt perfectly alright in front of you. Safe, even. Which is really a feat, if you think about it. Who can say they felt safe when someone does to them what you did to me? You just have that way about you. Thank god, honestly. Imagine if it had been someone else. The most intimate job there is, when you think about it. It couldn’t have been anyone else, but it was you.

It was supposed to be you.

It’s wild, really — I’ve never felt like this about anyone. 29 years and I’ve never felt so much as a glint of that thing they call love. Sure, I’d loved my dog, my brother, my father — I adored my mother. But that other love…I’d known no such thing.

A renowned cynic my entire life, I’d been known to scoff and frown at any trite phrase revolving around the very notion of romantic love. It just wasn’t for me. I’d had partners here and there, but nothing that ever lasted. And it wasn’t love — far from it. They could always tell I was never really into it. Most flings had questioned if I had a heart at all.

It hurt every time they said it, though I never let on. That is my nature, as well.

Stoic. Prideful. Uncompromising.

I feel you’d find it endearing, though. You wouldn’t be so quick to judge.

And, though unconventional, you have seen my heart. So that negates the argument, doesn’t it? I had one all along. Those bastards didn’t know what they were talking about.

None of them did, come to think of it. I’ve had plenty of time to contemplate and reflect while I wait for our next (I hope) meeting. It’s not their fault — it never was. I spent so much of my life thinking it was everyone else’s shortcomings that forced me into a life of, dare I say, reclusivity.

But no one forced me — I’d simply been too afraid.

Too afraid to live.

Too afraid to find the real joy in being alive. That’s why you thrill me, Golden Eyes. I know you’ve never feared joy. You’ve lept straight into its arms with unabashed vigor time and time again because that’s who you are. A joy seeker. A lover of all things.

Were I to do it all again, that’s how I’d like to be, as well. Perhaps there is a “next time,” and perhaps after we’re through here, I can go on and find it. Maybe you’ll even be there eventually.

A girl can dream.

Now I know you might find that part about me being a recluse a tad undesirable (who wouldn’t?), but it wasn’t always that way. Sure, I was afraid of most things throughout my life, but the anti-social bit only started a few years ago. The last time I came to a place like this, actually.

I was twenty-four and I’d recently dropped out of school for the third time. Everyone was mad at me. As I prepared to move back home, my brother called me to say how disappointed Dad was — he’d been telling everyone how his youngest was set to graduate from the most prestigious school in the state. I told him that’s Dad’s problem. He overpromised all while knowing I’d consistently underdelivered. And if he really felt that way, maybe he should have said it to me instead. But that’s not how our family worked. Jack had Dad and I had Mom — our own personal confidants.

When I got back home, I could tell Mom was in another one of her “moods.” They lasted for months at a time, and Dad mentioned this one had gone on particularly long. He was worried, but I wasn’t. I knew after a few weeks I’d be able to turn it around. That’s how it usually worked — that’s why I dropped out of school twice before, in all honesty. I knew she needed me. She needed that bond, our bond, to pull her through. Unbeknownst to her, I needed it too, at the time. Life was getting dark again.

Two weeks after moving back in, I went out to grab some groceries while Dad was at work. Mom didn’t feel like going anywhere during one of these spells, so I left her home alone. I’m sure you can fill in the rest — you’re a smart guy and you see it all the time, I bet.

She left a note on my bed. It was laden with apologies — apologies for things I couldn’t even remember. Had they happened at all? I wonder still sometimes.

I offered to identify her body. I don’t know why — Jack was a doctor, after all, so I feel he harbored the sort of emotional callousness needed to do such a thing. No one objected, though, so my offer stood and before I knew it, I was walking into a room just like this.

The policewoman introduced me to a man who looked nothing like you. He was old and balding and I remember him smelling like stale crackers and overripe fruit — strawberries, maybe? It was a sweetness that crawled into my sinuses and refused to leave. I smell it often. I smell it in here with me now.

Anyway, he mumbled something about the condition of her head (“She jumped, you know. Twelve stories! Could’ve killed somebody.”) and urged me to be quick, for it was almost time for his lunch break.

I wasn’t hearing much of anything, luckily. Instead, I gazed at the small, steel doors on the farthest wall. If I remember correctly, there were fifteen of them — three up, five across. Which one was Mom in? That question was answered almost immediately.

The man thoughtlessly yanked on the handle of the middle door in the second row from the right as if he were opening the rusty filing cabinet in his stupid little office that held all of his tax returns from the past two decades. As if that person behind the door hadn’t lived an entire life filled with moments of wonder, fits of laughter, stints of madness, trips to Vermont in the fall, and birthday parties for her children. As if that door wasn’t the gateway to the only person I’d ever adored.

As if he weren’t introducing me to the last time I’d ever see her face.

Her eyes.

They were the first thing I saw when he pulled her out. They were all I needed to see to know, to confirm what we already knew. I hadn’t expected them to be open, but I suppose like most things, movies had lied about that too.

And immediately I remembered something she used to tell me when I was little. She said my eyes were like a compass — her compass. Sometimes her sadness drifted her so far us, but “one look,” she’d say, led her straight back to where she needed to be.

With us. With me.

Maybe you saw the same thing when you looked into my eyes. When you uncovered my face for the first time that night. When you scrubbed my body clean and inspected each and every fold of my brain. Each major blood vessel, each chamber of my still, silent heart.

You found it quite quickly. Of course you did, you brilliant, beautiful boy. I saw what you wrote down on your little notepad, your face twisted into an inquisitive frown:

Ruptured aortic aneurysm

That’s fair — my heart stopped working so well when I lost her.

I’ve never spoken about her again to anyone but you now, Golden Eyes. Jack insisted I see someone, a therapist or something, but I failed to see the point in that. Never much of a talker, I couldn’t see how words could ever surmise how I was feeling.

I felt the weight of it all aching in my bones, pulsing through my blood ‘til the day I died. Beyond that, even. I feel it now.

It all reminds me of that E.E. Cummings poem. Surely you know it, Golden Eyes. You’d have likely recited it to me on our first anniversary — maybe even our wedding day. I’ll refrain from reciting the whole thing, after all, just the one line comes to mind:

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in

my heart)

Mom’s heart was always too heavy, so I carried it. I carried it since the day I was born — likely since I was conceived.

It was too heavy for both of us in the end, wasn’t it?

It’s all been a bit too heavy, I suppose, Golden Eyes.

But how lucky am I to have found love in a place like this? “Love in a hopeless place” — wasn’t that Rhianna? I digress, but surely Mr. Cummings could have written a poem about that, too.

And of course, you would’ve read it and loved it just as much as I would’ve.

We really could’ve been something, I think. Maybe we might still be — somewhere, some way. Crazier things have happened. I don’t know for sure, but I bet they have. This is one chaotic and beautiful world, after all.

Wait — I hear people in the hall.

They’ve just opened the door — it’s two voices and neither sound like yours. They’re opening the door to my…what would you call this? Refrigerator? Obviously, you know the correct term, but it escapes me at the moment.

I see the cardboard box…I suppose “coffin” is the preferred term around here, but let’s call it what it is.

I really hoped to see you again, Golden Eyes. But maybe I will. You know, somewhere a little less sterile.

Thank you for proving the existence of my tired heart — if it could still beat, it surely would for you.

I know that’s pretty cheesy, but it’s the best I can do given the circumstances.

My god, you’re really something, you know?

So in honor of life being far too short and all that (believe me, I know), allow me to say it one last time with feeling, to both you and her — my mom:

I love you.

I wish I’d said that more often.

But what could be more poignant than a corpse’s last words — thoughts — to be that of love?

I'll let you in on a little secret: they always are.