Love Letter

The hospital lights are a blinding and sterile white, a white that only makes me miss the bright colours of my home. The nurses are all showing kindness to me, insisting that I eat something, but I keep stubbornly refusing. I have tried to make conversation with them, but they are all in a hurry, and I am too tired to push them to speak. A doctor has indicated that there is not much time left for me, he looked too young to be a doctor, and was rather nervous as he spoke. I laughed at the fact that he appeared even more nervous than me.

The truth is, I am somewhat afraid. The moments before drifting off into sleep have become sacred, as I know that they may be my last. I try to make these moments last longer, however, sleep is gaining its hold on me and with every day that passes it becomes harder to stay awake. I try make the most of these moments and given that I have no one to share them with, I use these moments to remember.

I remember that I knew I was in love with her at our last goodbye. She took the afternoon bus from Chetumal back to her native Merida. It was 1962 and the air was thick with the summer heat. We agreed to write to each other every month until we would meet again. It was a 7-hour bus ride, nonetheless, we both knew that the distance was not enough to keep us apart. As I watched her bus drive away, memories of the time we had just spent together flashed into my mind. Walking down Chetumal's boulevard with her hand in mine, with the sounds of distant violins and gentle streetlights, these were moments I would always hold dear to my heart.

“Letter from Estela!” my sister would yell as she walked into our humble house. I would suddenly become aware of the now rapidly increasing beat of my heart and with sweaty palms would I reach for the delicately sealed white envelope. “I miss you”, were always her first words but no matter how many letters she sent, these three words always made me smile. They made me feel safe, the seasons had changed but her love for me had not.

It would take me a whole day to find inspiration for the perfect words to convey my love for her. I would often walk alongside the same boulevard we walked hand in hand, I walked alone this time, trying to remember what it felt like to have her next to me. These walks alone would help me find the words to write to her. I would often write about my plans and how I could not wait to see her again.

We kept writing about our love and dreams to each other for the next 6 months. But as the months went by, my boulevard walks began to feel different. I found it harder to remember what it felt like to have her by my side. I tried to recall her voice, the feel of her hands in mine, but could hear nothing but the buzz of other conversations around me. The same violinists filled the street with their songs, but no longer did they sound beautiful, they were too loud, too noisy, every sound was making it harder to remember her soft voice.

My frustration came out in my letters, I had laid down a plan for when we could meet again, waiting weeks for a response in the mail, only to find that once again she had given me the same vague response. In her perfect cursive writing she wrote “be patient please, one day we will be together for eternity”. My frustration grew, I wrote to her that I wanted to be patient, but it was difficult to wait for something that was uncertain, I wrote that I was nearing the end of my patience and would not wait much longer.

Estela’s next letter to me was different. It was a telegram telling me that her mother would be visiting Chetumal soon. She gave me a time, place and urged me to go visit her.

“Please go and visit her, talk to her, you will understand”.

“Understand what?” I asked myself.

The next week was plagued with those two words. The day to meet Estela’s mother had arrived. I went to the hotel that she was staying at which was conveniently only a 5-minute walk from my house. “Room 25” was plastered along a thick wooden door; this was the room Estela had given me. I breathed in deeply then knocked. The sound of hurried footsteps accompanied a short period of silence.

“Who is it?” a sweet voice asked. “It is Carlos, Estela’s boyfriend”. There was a period of silence, followed by the creak of a slowly opening door. A short lady with sad eyes now stood quietly under the door frame, her wrinkled hands gripping the side of the door tightly. “Estela’s boyfriend?”

“Yes, we have been together since her visit to Chetumal 6 months ago. We have written to each other every month” I said whilst proudly showing her the letters that her daughter had written to me.

Estela’s mother stared at me in disbelief, she gasped as her eyes grew dewy and sad. “We didn't receive any letters from you. Estela never arrived at Merida from Chetumal, she suffered a heart attack on the bus, we buried her the next day.” I felt a stab to my heart as she spoke, I was unable to say another word. Sadness covered my life for the rest of my days. I stopped walking down the boulevard entirely. We did however keep writing to each other. This time, I stopped asking her when we would meet again. I already knew.

My thought is interrupted by a knock on my door. the sad memories have been overtaken once more by the blinding hospital lights, however, somehow the lights appear dimmer. The nurse calls out “the priest is here to anoint you”. I try to sit up but am met with a painful throb in my chest. “don’t worry Carlos, you can stay lying down, just rest”. As the priest anoints me, I feel a strange rest overtake me, I smile, finally I will be with Estela for eternity.