pancakes in the morning
I saw you come for me. It was the last thing I ever saw.
I remember the noises, the shouting and the screaming. I remember the pain of the wound, the blood, trickling like that funny clear syrup you always like on your pancakes in the morning. I didn't make them for you that morning, I'm sorry. I remember the strange smell, like I was covered in pennies. I remember the surprise... I remember everything with crystal clarity, except for the fact that the only thing I saw was you.
You running toward me in that strange, slow motion way like on that beach show you always watch. You used to tell me it was because you were such a big fan of rescue shows but I knew the truth. I just didn't say anything. I bet you didn't know I was capable of not speaking my mind but I can. I just always chose not to.
When you ran to me I actually thought the entire world had slowed down. That is had realized I was dying and wanted to die with me. But no, it was just you. It's always just been you. You screamed my name and came to me. For one last time I got to take shelter in your arms.
For all the things I have experienced as a human I'd have to say that dying is the strangest feeling. There's a kind of fuzzy feeling that blossoms out from the wound and spreads like a stain over your body. It's a fuzzy crackling feeling like what used to happen to your TV before you got cable. Then my body went all numb and floaty. The only thing I could feel was your hands.
I used to watch those hands while you worked. I witnessed them change a piece of wood into something useful and productive. Those large hands that I used to massage when you came home from work. Keeping alert for new injuries. I remember I was so upset when you came home one night with a callus. I didn't want your rough hands on my soft body. What I wouldn't give now to have a body for you to touch.
I should be taking this rare, blessed moment to tell you how much I love you- and I do love you. It's just hard to admit that I'm not coming back, that I'm actually dead.
I'm dead. It looks so strange down on paper. For all my vocal fears I never, deep in my now unbeating heart thought I would die. Not 'I never thought I would die this young'. No, I never really thought I would die. I always thought some type of something would intervene.
But now here I am, dead and buried. I finally got answers to all those questions I had about Joyce's death. Unfortunately I realized too late that it's not the answers that are important, it's the questions.
The best part about having pancakes with you was learning how to make them. Getting Bisquick all over the place, realizing that 'cups' didn't mean those super-gulp things you got from the 7-Eleven, and being told '2 eggs' meant the insides only. And you ate them all. With a strained smile and a large glass of milk nearby. First the Cajun style then the raw, Japanese style, then the style with the lumps...till I finally got it right. Till I turned my vice into my expertise.
Hey! That's a metaphor! Huh, who would have thought I could get this human thing down so well I can create metaphors now. If I wasn't dead, if it wasn't too late, I think I'd be really happy. I guess that's irony.
I'm getting the feeling my time here is growing short so I'll wrap this up. I love you, I'll wait for you. And if you ever look at any woman the way you looked at me I'll make sure you're dipped in a vat of boiling wax and fed you to a pack of ravenous bunnies.
d e a d l e t t e r s h o m e