Do you mind if I take a few minutes of your time? There are a couple of matters I would like to discuss. I realize this may not be the best time, but there are very few “best” times left for us anymore. Can you hear the rain? It hasn’t rained, I mean really rained, for longer than I can remember. Some people think that constant drumming is peaceful, something to fall asleep to, something to help you find your focal point in life. Some people think that. I just find it depressing. When the darkness settles in and the water falls and falls and falls, unrelenting in its nature, it is like the hole I find myself climbing out of every morning. There are so many mornings like that now, that most of the time I just want to keep sleeping. And when the rain falls, I mean what can you do? You might as well just keep sleeping.

I found those pills in your dresser drawer. I never asked you about them. I should have. I should have asked you about so many things. I should have asked you what your favorite color was. I don’t even know. Does it matter that you have a favorite color? Do colors represent something important in our lives? If you like blue, does that mean you find solace in the world? If you like red, does that mean you are easily irritated, or that you want instant gratification? And what about black. My favorite color when I was your age was black. Is black even a color? Is it just the absence of light or is it all colors combined when you can’t quite make up your mind which color is right so you take them all? I should have asked you about your first date. Did it go well? Do you find the company of males intoxicating or just annoying? What did you talk about? Did you discuss the little things, the unimportant things in life because they are little and unimportant and because they are that way, they are easier to talk about? Or did you discuss the heavier, weightier issues. Should we be involved in a war to slaughter innocent people? How long will the natural resources hold out and what should be done when we begin to see the end? Is there a God? And if so, it must be a He, for a She certainly wouldn’t be able to endure so much suffering from Her children. I should have asked you why you hated me. Why you turn away from me when I try to kiss you good night? Why you change seats every time I sit next to you? Why we never talk except about the little, unimportant things in life? I should have asked you about the pills.

Did I ever tell you about my first memory? They say memories are linked with emotional experiences, so I suppose it comes as no surprise that my first memory dealt with horror, or at least what I thought was horror. I must have been three or four. My older brother and I slipped out of our bedroom window just after we had been pretending to take a nap. With fishing poles in hand, we headed for the irrigation ditch in the back. The water was probably runoff from some farmer’s fields, but for us, it was alive with slimy creatures that could cause unbelievable destruction, and, of course, that was why we were so drawn to them. Crawdads is what they really were, but to us, they were monsters with claws that could tear your flesh apart. My brother found the footing slippery, and when he attempted to traverse the enormous roots of whatever trees shaded the ditch, his footing gave way and into the abyss he sank. He screamed. He screamed a scream that only kids who think they are about to be devoured by some nightmarish creatures can scream. I offered him the end of my fishing pole thinking I would be his savior, but in horror stories there are no saviors, no real heroes, so when he pulled, I soon joined him in the waist-high muddy waters. Although the waters were shallow, the slope of the ditch was steep, and the roots of the watchful trees eluded our grasps. I joined my brother in the scream of certain death. Five minutes later, our neighbors came to our rescues. It is my first memory. I wonder what your first memory is. What horrors did you endure at a young age so that it became indelibly imprinted, never to be erased, and easily recalled?

Do you remember the horse rides? Of course you do. Horses were your passion. You and mom would ride out together, bare backed or saddled, like two spirits from the old West. I would walk behind, the shrapnel remains in my knee making any kind of riding out of the question. The spring foothills would be alive with green shoots covered in early morning frost, and the horses hooves would send wisps of steam circling just above the soft clay. I would struggle to keep up with you, slowly dropping farther and farther behind. Soon, you were out of sight and even the sounds of the horses and your conversation vanished in the cold morning air. I would be alone. But I had gotten used to being alone. As I trudged up the muddy hills, my boots becoming heavier and heavier with the thick clay, I would try to remember the words of old songs to keep me company. Music brings a certain joy with it, but when I sang, I found I could only remember fragments of the lyrics, and so, as I struggled with my footing, I struggled with the words, and both brought little comfort. You had disappeared from my life.

Sometimes I get reality and fiction confused. When the reality takes an ugly turn, there is a beauty in the other worlds that surround us. Your accident for example. After the accident, in the hospital, you wondered if you would ever be able to ride again. You didn’t ask if you would be able to walk or dance or run, but would you be able to ride again. The shattered bones in your leg and the circulation loss after the horse pinned you on your side convinced the doctors that you would be better off with an artificial limb. You said, “no.” You said that you wanted both legs or life wouldn’t be worth living. I thought about that for a long time. What makes life worth living? Is it something that we have created, some need or ritual or ability that we just can’t do without? Is it a relationship? For you it was two legs. . . those things that gave you support in life, that carried you over, around and through the daily gauntlet of routine, that let you climb upon the back of someone who was truly alive. Was that worth risking your life for? But to have that kind of passion, oh, how I envy you that. I would never want to deny you that passion. And whether it be fiction or reality, what difference does it make? Perception is everything.

When your horse died, did something inside you die as well? How long did it take you before the mornings became tolerable? Before food tasted like food? Before you took a step out of the darkness? I want to know those things. Did you need something to keep the ground from opening up each time you got out of bed? What were those pills? Can you tell me how long it takes for your heart to heal?
One last thing I need to say to you before I leave. There is a balance in life. Chaos may be all that we see, but the atoms, the molecules, the tears, they all balance out. You have chosen your path, and although it may take a serpentine route, I will be there to travel it with you in the end. These wildflower seeds are for you. The cacophony of colors will always remind me of you. Be you my darling, for there is nothing more precious than knowing who you are.

Click.

“Monica, it’s time for bed. Please turn off the t.v. and come to bed.”

“In a little while, Mom. I’ll be there soon.”

“Oh, and bring me a mint from your dresser before you turn out the lights.”

“Yes, mom.”

Click.

Do you mind if I take a few minutes of your time? There are a couple of matters I would like to discuss. . .