SFS 7: The Heart's Long Thaw

SFS 7: The Heart's Long Thaw

I had a friend who passed away. I was close to that friend and helped clean up all the possessions left behind. While rummaging, an envelope featuring a unique seal surfaced, and after investigation a short letter emerged from within. Perhaps my deceased friend is the author, for the script approximately matches his—but with a faded ink necessitating uncertainty. But to whom the letter may have been addressed, this puzzles me and everyone else who knew the deceased in our town.

The attitude is contrary to known disposition of my friend but perhaps his melancholy directly fueled the serene tone which made my friend so special. Perhaps the letter does indicate some reasons surrounding my friend’s character and untimely death; the deceased was found before age 60 sitting in a rocking chair near a burnt out fireplace in same hut described (I presume). But this judgment should be left to others.

After showing the letter to several people, it was agreed upon to make the letter public, in a casual manner. We never knew of any intimate relations regarding the deceased and another, but most of us had come to know the deceased at a more advanced age. Of the past, no one knew much but assumed the quiet, kind, and honest nature must have been innate to our friend’s soul and a guiding force for the entirety of my friend’s life.

Aside from the letter’s surprising exposure of a past no one knew, a sign of real, true, and genuine heartbreak is contained within. No one can deny the pain conveyed, and now I wonder how closely to the heart this story dwelled. The letter is personal, and whomever it was written to must have slashed deeply into the deceased’s soul but not so deeply that scarring destroyed the emotion, for not only did the letter survive many years but the entire occurrence was kept away from the deceased’s closest friends, with whom many holidays and intimate conversations passed.

Please enjoy some of the last remnants of the deceased, my friend, and a person who held in this life and from the afterlife still holds, my love. The names are blocked as to respect privacy, but the substance of this letter is more important than any names.

Dear *****,

The skies are grey, and I find myself huddling inside for most of the day. Outside is cold, but not so unbearably cold as to prohibit movement. Cars go by, a leisurely walking couple passed the house not too long ago, but the pond is frozen solid and my feet will get cold upon removal from the hearth—so inside is my place today.

Maybe tomorrow I will be able to go outside, walk the still woods, or ice skate on the frozen pond. But so long as clouds shroud the sun, casting gloom upon us all, the chances of my leaving are low. There really is no reason to be so uncomfortable when everything necessary to sustain myself is available here; heat, knowledge, and puzzles. Here my soul is the type of calm many mistake for stagnation, because they see inactivity as too familiar to facilitate me to do anything significant. But they do not see that in this little world, inside my home, is where everything happens, where contentment pervades. Venturing out is strain on an otherwise pleasing state, stimulated aplenty.

Inside my home there is love, albeit a lonely love with which I long to warm more than just myself. But my home is not empty, if you were under that impression; tropical patterns, beachside photos, and beaded trinkets decorate the surfaces here, and they all remind me of times when I was not alone.

The memories of not being alone also keep me warm. I never quite understood how I ended up here; no maliciousness propelled me here, nor did lust or jealousy. Fear did sometimes grip me, and looking back perhaps that fear planted me in this warm hut solitarily. Fear always haunted my subconscious orientation towards you after hearing that you wanted time alone. Back then I consciously understood that you wanted adventure, but did not self-identify as an obstacle to it until you left.

In the week before you left, I was ready to change everything about my life for you—even relinquishing certain dreams paled in comparison to losing you. You see, a premonition had come to me saying I would lose you without improving my own bill of health and lifestyle. The premonition shook me deeply, and I tried to tell you about it but your mind was so far away from your body then that you refused my imploration.

Then, the next day, you decided to leave. It shocked me more than anything else you could have done; your departure stirred emotions dormant since the day I discovered un-anticipatable pain. If only time elapsed amply enough for me to formulate the thoughts you now read. I just wanted you to know my childishness was the meek expression of a soul troubled by opening itself, the lack of clarity a side effect of my subconscious suspicion that your heart desired freedom more than it desired me.

When you announced your intention to leave, I rationalized the problem plaguing us, the alternating of one of us being tired while the other rested. “It won’t always be 50/50,” you said, whenever it would happen. But that night you were so upset, and myself, seeing you and simultaneously taking a defensive stance, couldn’t just repeat your guiding wisdom. Instead I catapulted into the first stage of grief, denial. And your witnessing this burdens my heart further.

Since you left, the stages of grief repeat themselves daily, sometimes hourly, and I am remiss to wonder where I might be on the grander scale of a macro grieving process. Am I normal to feel grief so strongly, to suffer from fits, to vigorously fight for presence during the moments you arise in my mind? Never has normal emotional and physical health been so difficult to maintain.

By your side and in your corner, these concerns were as real as the tree falling with no one around; sure, they exist, but remotely and in the distance, which is ironically the same way you now exist to me.

If there was one thing I could tell you, face to face, it would not be a profession of the sad love residing deep in my heart, nor the wishes I have for you to come back to me; the only thing I could say is how you brought undiluted light into my life, and everything about you was bright, that even on our tough days I felt your light was present—merely hiding behind clouds, as Seneca described virtue.

You were a pillar of my existence, a soft flower delightful to my heart and all five senses, and I cannot ever tell you that enough times.

Today, I see what we had as Bertrand Russell’s misty mountain, the misty host of our wandering souls and feet, a host which at the time we had no objective view of. Distance and time exposed each path trodden, and today feels like the day to begin anew, so I am writing you this letter in case you ever come looking for me.

This journey of mine will be transforming, healing, and a battle requiring everything I have. Maybe one day we will see each other again, the pond frozen over my heart will thaw and I will emerge ready to once again walk and feed like the previously hibernating bear. This time, fully in your loving arms.

If that day comes, your yellow light will surely fill my soul again. I can only hope it does.

Sincerely & Always Yours,

******

The letter’s suggestion that something new will begin paints life in our town here as that new beginning. I had known the deceased for nearly 25 years and during all that time the character of my dear friend changed little. My friend openly spoke of his heart problem, but now I suspect this a metaphysical heart problem. But the coroner will let us know, and by no means does idle speculation soothe the grievers of our community.

In fondest memory, I write and publish this for you, you who holds my love and respect.