For fifty years I worked as a receptionist at the Orthodontics Center on the corner of Grand and Fifth Street. I lived a simple life, one full of the monotony of routine. Each day went about the same way. I would wake Jack up at 6am and we would roll over in bed and tell each other our dreams.
Jack had wild dreams. He would usually be on the run from fictitious creatures. Jack followed the rule book of dreams, always dreaming without color and waking before his death. My dreams were the opposite. I'd die in them constantly. Instead of walking up in a start, I'd drift from my body and watch the dream play out from above. It is as if my brain wanted to watch the aftermath and calculate what was going to happen next. Most morning I’d wake up in start, stories pouring from my lips. Jack and I would share our fears and excitement before carrying on with our day.
My husband was therapist. He has a heart that never overflowed, he always listened to the people around him with the intention of being a trusted friend. Jack was a saint. We met in a coffee shop when I was only nineteen years old. Being eight years older than me, I was intimidated by him at first. Despite this, we became quick friends and eventually got married when I was twenty two. Jack and I had our first child, Ana, two years later.
I never thought Jack and I would ever be a part until one day his heart betrayed us on the golf course. Jack was seventy nine years old. It was the nightmare from my dreams.
After a year of contemplation, I decided to retire from the dental office. Washing the smell of antiseptic and gum molds from my skin, I set off to San Francisco.
My eldest daughter Ana lived in the city with her husband Jeremy. I had two grand babies waiting for me and I was ready to find peace again, like Jack would have wanted. For too long I was stuck watching my body move from above. I wanted to wake up kick from above and release myself from the cruel hold. I imagined Jack shaking my arm and telling me to imagine a better dream to escape the ones around me.
I arrived in San Francisco in early October. I rented a small studio apartment above a coffee shop. It was very quaint compared to the family home I raised my children in. I didn’t need anything bigger though because it was just me and Fredrick, my nine year old greyhound. The apartment had an open floor plan surrounded by bright windows that flushed in warm light.
I sat on the floor, peeling off tape from a box labelled paints. I pulled out my favorite art book and flipped through the pages. I thumbed through until I found a dog eared page, worn by stains of acrylic. Wedged in the binding of the book there was an envelope. It read, to my sweet Emily. I opened in, remembering its contents. It was an anniversary letter from Jack. He gave me this book as a gift with rekindle my love for painting. I opened the letter and read it.
Dear my sweet Emily,
My life has been full of endless happiness. I have witness my children grow in successful adults, I have felt empowered to grow my own practice and I have felt loved with every moment of my life. This happiness is because of you. Your kind heart has made me the luckiest man. I would not take away any of the memories we have shared. My darling Emily, it is time for you to focus of your passions. You must begin to forget what happened ten years ago. Follow your heart my love.
Always,
Jack
No comments:
Post a Comment