Page 8 of Last Letters to Ara
I love you.
I’m proud of you.
I can’t wait to see where this life takes you.
Love,
Dad
Pretty sure I’m not still crying only because I have physically run out. For a man of few words while he was alive, he really just had to go and use every word that hit me like a gut punch in death.
My feelings instantly become pandemonium beneath my skin. It’s an uproar made of my sadness and my anger, an anarchy of rage for the universe which took him away too soon, and the despondency that comes with knowing I’ll never again find comfort in resting my head on his shoulder.
Despite everything, Dad has found a way to help me get through this. He found a way to reach me, to be here when I need him the most, regardless of the cruel universe ripping him away.
Underneath the anguish, the lawless free-for-all of what I’m feeling is overwhelming gratitude that even in death, he would never abandon me. Knowing that I won’t be going through this alone, that he will be able to guide me through his letters gives me a sense of security and a little, glowing kernel of something else.
Something which looks a lot like hope.
Present - Ara
GET OUT OFyour apartment.
Standing on the sidewalk just outside of my apartment, I take a moment to appreciate the nice weather that never lasts for more than a handful of months. Florida’s year is pretty much divided into two parts: hell and survivable. Hell takes place between May and September thanks to the heat, humidity, torrential rain, potential hurricanes, and mosquitoes. October through April are usually pretty decent, wonderful even, especially if you’re one of the snowbirds who comes from up north.
A fresh breeze brushes through my hair, taking my waves in every direction. I pull my cardigan tighter around myself, wishing I wore a jacket instead. It rarely gets below sixty degrees, but this morning appears to be one of the flukes. Feeling cold is a bit of a novelty in Florida and warrants bundling up in the heavy clothing that only gets worn a couple of times a year.
Go on a walk and look at the world.
Not sure why I wasn’t allowed to look at the world while sitting on my ass, but okay. Cardio has never been my friend. Nor has any other form of exercise, for that matter. Sadly, I was born without the ingredients that make one enjoy waking up early, working out, and liking salads. Instead, I was blessed with the love for lazy Sundays and pretty much anything one could buy at a food truck.
I head toward the little park at the center of Hyde Park Village, just down the road from where I live. It’s a beautiful place with a lot of charm. Everything in Florida is pretty beachy and starts to seem generic after you live here long enough, but this park is a little slice of heaven with its giant oak trees, surrounding greenery, and antique wrought-iron benches.
I’ve always loved New York from afar, and this scenery reminds me of the bits of it that I’ve seen in pictures and movies. If I close my eyes and think hard enough, I can even pretend that I was brave enough to take a risk, that I’m in New York right now chasing after my dream that seems like a distant blip on the horizon now. The cold breeze and sounds of ruffling leaves make it almost convincing, until I open my eyes and remember I’m the girl who works in a café, living in fear of the dark, lurking shadow of my life called change.
After one loop around the park, I figure that I’ve done enough walking to check that off the list and decide to take a seat on one of the beautiful benches. Gorgeous to look at, terrible on the ass.
I don’t know how long I sit there, watching people go by. Some hurry past and some look like they’ve got all the time in the world. I can’t help but wonder where they might be headed.
A woman goes by in her designer Pilates outfit that probably costs more than my car, likely a resident from the more expensive area down by the water.
A man walks by with flowers. It’s a colorful display with no roses, so they aren’t intended for a lover, so it must be someone’s birthday. Maybe his mother. I continue to watch him until he stops at one of the carts to buy a balloon which reads ‘Happy Birthday’.
Nailed it.
This is the only form of human interaction I enjoy, the kind that happens from far away and doesn’t include any real interchange. Afterall, the best way to avoid being maimed by a tiger is to stay out of its habitat and far enough away from its claws.
I’m stalling. These first two tasks were surprisingly doable, nice even. It felt good to have an excuse to shower and get out of the house to breathe some fresh air.
But the next task?
Go to our favorite breakfast place and order the usual.
I have to walk into a place, filled with memories of Dad, and not break down? Technically, I could just walk in, order the usual and get out of there before it’s even ready. He didn’t specify that I had to sit down and eat at our table.
But I know what he intended, and my cowardly way out would eat away at me if I chose that route.
Dad wants me to learn how to still love something we did together, even if I do it alone now. The thing is, I don’t want to love it without him. I want to keep everything we did together wrapped up in a tiny box and preserve it forever.
