elizabethlevett

I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul.  – Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

Years ago I thought about what I would say if something should take you away from me. This year I could have lost you. This year I knew the silence of a house with no you in it for a few days. 

What would I tell those who never have really known you like I do? How would I explain who you are to me so they’ll understand? They know how much you mean to me, but they never get to see what I see or know what I know about you.

I might tell them how I lied to you when I met you at that party years ago. I told you I was looking for a bass player. I’d have to tell them our bass player never liked you after you brought in your guitar and joined the band. (How I mourned the loss of that old Gibson years later!) But would I tell them how, the first time you and I were alone in the studio, writing a song, that we ended up on the floor? Do they know we climbed a big tree one day in the Presidio and lay down together on a huge branch where you proposed? You’d just seen Joe diMaggio as we passed the golf course. The sight of Mr. True Love put you on track.

I could explain how a whole evening can pass with only music and laughter and how the sight of you pulling a guitar into your lap makes me so happy. I don’t want to miss a note. I could go on and on about the food you make – every evening. There are occasional failed experiments, as one would expect, the lamb that stayed on the grill way too long when staying outside with one more cocktail was too tempting. But the range of good things to eat is constantly expanding to include symphonic salads, hearty and satisfying soups, savory stews and chili, perfect pastas, all kinds of seafood and even luxuries like Spanakopita and moussaka. They’d picture you laying out the delicate layers of phyllo and carefully brushing on a little melted butter or somehow always getting the eggplant right. Come to think of it, they’ve heard all about your cooking by now – so many have come to our table to enjoy!

I’d have to mention how handsome you are. They’d know. They’ve seen you. They may not see you as I do though. They don’t know that you wear a button-up shirt even to do gardening. But have they seen you in dork jeans with a grey wool sports coat? And your black high-tops, no less? (And them there eyes!) Maybe. Still, I’m just not sure if they really see.

I could tell about the books we’ve read together and the long talks that always come after. I don’t share your love of science fiction but neither do you like burying yourself in a stack of southern realism. But I love how you call Nietzsche, Fred and say he’s “a hoot.” I love that you read nonfiction with me and make connections that escape me about the world we live in and its harsh realities. You catch me at my worst and accept me. You support me in all things, celebrate my successes, explain away my anxiety. With you I’m never the fraud I sometimes accuse myself of being. With you I’m never wrong – only misguided at times. You treat me as much more than I am, you make me want to grow into what you see to make you even prouder. 

There are more than thirty years of memories. I’m greedy for more. I want more road trips and hikes, more rain storms to revel in. Remember that funny, broken down house in Guerneville where we spent our January honeymoon and arrived in the dark and the pouring rain – like something out of one of our favorite Universal horror movies. Everybody knows how we love the black-and-white classics – private detectives, misunderstood monsters, and giant bugs threatening the townspeople. You introduced me to radio shows too. I guess that’s old news. I got you interested in native plants and you took our pitiful garden area to the glorious status it now enjoys with your thoughtful planting and landscaping. (You even used a plumb line to plot the placement of each stone!) They may know I insisted on poppy seed cake at our wedding. They may not know it was because you used to keep the little black poppy seeds in the pocket of your raincoat to toss into tree wells on our walks. Something bright for the city.

Certain things I wouldn’t dare tell. Certain things will die with you and me. Naturally, I will not mention the salty taste of your butter skin. I will not say a word about the soft animal sound you sometimes make that’s something between a sigh and a song. No, this belongs only to me. So does that look that catches me – won’t let me look away. There is a warmth and sweetness in you that no one knows but me, I would only hope they’d guess.

They know we’ve seen more loss than we expected to over the years. But they can’t imagine the compassion and tenderness you’ve shown so many times when you’ve cared for dear ones who aren’t here anymore. Those dear ones might not have known your kindness like I do either, not until the end when your care became so important. They don’t know these things. I’ll never forget.

I would tell them that yes, I’ve fought with you but that you’ve never said an unkind word to me. I will tell them you have never been any more perfect than I’ve been. But you always listen, always try. I will tell them to think of you kindly, to think of you softly and I will always think of you with gratitude and love.

Note: This piece has been published on Digital Paper, the online magazine of the Bay Area Writing Project, which can be found here: https://digitalpaper.wordpress.com/