The man in bed is gone now. When someone takes their life, we can either plug our ears or listen with our hearts. I suppose I was left sitting there, waiting for the concert to begin---reading through a perfunctory program of the past. And then suddenly I was mad because I realized the symphony had been playing all along and I never heard it. Tears and snot ran off my chin---and then, slowly, I caught my breath. Because the music was still playing, now striking my inner chords. The reverberation was awesome, and it would swell up again and again---whether I was out watering the yard or laying in bed next to my husband.
I could now clearly recall the day we met, his eagerness to be my friend. I felt more than my gratitude now. I felt his love and understanding---his subconscious understanding that I would be the one who would hear him after everyone else folded their programs. I flinched when he could finally show me why he would end his life, but I could take it. I was prepared even before we met, for his secret was too similar to mine.
Could it be magic? The man he left behind believed me---he could see me vibrate, but it wasn't something I could gift him. I was conditioned to try, but in the end the gulf is wide between believing and accepting. We all carry so much baggage. I was left holding the gift, and slowly came to realize it was meant for me. For now, anyway.
Oh yes, there's a backside to this envelope---not as well executed, but showing my propensity to unduly expose myself to the public. Some things never change, do they? My butt never looked so good on a bench...
It's his head on a less hirsute body. I know I never sent this in his direction because he wouldn't know the song Tico Tico or Ethel Smith flying around with her Hammond organ, but I'd like to think he'd be amused by the swaying chenille balls on my hat.
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