Petrichor

(Letter #6)

Mr. Carson,

My thoughts weigh heavy on the idea of a soul mate. After the events of my last letter, I’ve suffered an incessant case of lassitude. I try to get up and at least go for a walk around the block, but sometimes I can’t make myself do it. The sun is so bright and warm, and the feeling is unwelcome. There’s an undeniable craving to bask this depression, but I know Fi would be woefully disappointed.

I’ve thought about possibly adopting a dog. A golden retriever, or maybe a Siberian husky. Fi loved dogs, and I know she wanted one for Chloe when she got a little older. The backyard of this place is perfect for one. I ended up fixing the chainsaw, by the way. Frank’s boy over at the hardware store said it was a spark plug issue. The yard is looking great, but I don’t have much to do anymore during the day, and that’s part of the reason I’ve been so stagnant.

Some people say that you have one soul mate. You know, the old greek myth that humans had two arms and two legs, but were separated and doomed to spend their lives searching for their other half. I don’t think there’s any merit to that, personally, but I do believe of course that there are some more suited for you than others. Although, pinpointing who and why is really a fool’s errand. If you ask me we change who we are based on who we surround ourselves with, so how is it possible to really know what we want?

Who are you when no one else is around?

I know I avoid that question. I didn’t have much before my family, and now I feel I have even less in their absence. Oh, a dalliance she was not; our souls aren’t so changed by those that are fleeting. Ephemeral, evanescent. I’ve been reading the dictionary to pass the time. Finding words that describe Fi in the way that I knew her. Halcyon, fetching. A life of frisson before her. A lissomly lagniappe. Her voice the most mellifluous melody. It sounds pretentious, but it helps keep me from the what-ifs of my nightmares.

I ask myself, what if I had gone to the store instead of her? Would I have made it back unharmed, or would I have died in her place? I mean, all it would have taken was me leaving a minute or two before or after she did. Choosing a different route, going a different speed. I know that if I let myself get wrapped up in that long enough I’ll never get back out, and she wouldn’t have wanted that for me. I keep trying to find my way in the dark, but the light has gone out of my life and the more I stumble and feel around for something solid the more I scrape my knuckles on the wall. The smell of iron makes me sick.

I wish I knew what you were up to, Mr. Carson. You haven’t written back to me and I grow worried that old age has finally succumbed you to rest. I’m full of nothing but worry and guilt these days. Survivor’s guilt, they call it. I spend less time wishing it would have been me, though, and more dreaming of what our future could have held. County fairs. Frozen yogurt on summer nights. Setting up by the overpass to watch fireworks on the fourth. Maybe you could have been there, too, Mr. Carson, in this different life. Chloe would show you her nails and explain how she and mommy get them done every Thursday. It was their girl’s day, and I don’t think anything made her happier.

To be fully honest, I never wanted children. Fi and I talked about it a couple of times at different points in our relationship, but while her objections were jobs and money, mine were based more on me. I felt like I could barely take care of myself, so trying to raise another human being would be irresponsible of me. When Fi got pregnant, I was terrified. You might have thought I was going to be the first male to ever give birth, for as terrified as I was. As soon as Chloe was born, all of that fear dissolved into nothing but love. She was half Fi and half myself, but fully her own person, ready to take on the world.

I would have given my life for her without hesitation.

There’s been a thickness in my head since my first hangover. I assumed it would go away within a day or two, but I feel it hasn’t. I can’t tell anymore if what I feel is caused by an outside influence or if that’s just the way I am now. I tell myself the hangover hasn’t fully subsided yet, since that explanation is easier to swallow than the alternative. I feel a terrible emptiness, one that would fail to be filled by anything other than the mother of my daughter, the other half of my heart. There’s a chestnut-haired, whiskey-eyed ghost in my chest that smiles quietly at her books and stares out the window when it rains, and I would do anything to have her back.

Please write to me, Mr. Carson. The loneliness of these walls is starting to crush me, and I can’t bring myself to freedom on my own. Tell me of your travels and who you’ve met. Remind me that hearts and minds are still joined as one outside the boundaries of this personal hell. Most of all, tell me you’re coming back someday. I know you don’t have many years left where your body will allow you to continue your journey, but please come back to see me before you settle down. I hate the thought of never again setting up the Mancala board opposite of you and your travel mug of green tea.

As always, take care, Mr. Carson.

Until next time,
Simon Fields.