If we bought our bread and butter with love, instead of money, well I'm sure I'd be a poor man indeed. Scrimping, and saving those warm moments, catching them in a jar, and slowly releasing them, to afford the bare necessities. If materialism meant intangible feelings of joy, well I'd be a modest man, wearing only threadbare brown suits, my suitcase falling apart on my way to my low paying job.
I remember how we used to pretend we were English, our cracked mugs turning into tea sets, and the cheap teabags turned into luxurious, exotic, loose teas. And I would speak in a British accent, just to see you smiling. I'd say "'Ello, poppet!" in cockney lingo, and sometimes the tea would spill as you'd clumsily lean across the table to kiss me.
I remember, in bright Sunday mornings, we would make a large breakfast, just for us. We would slice fresh mozzarella that I bought from the market, and tomatoes that you grew in our tiny garden, and drizzle it with olive oil. We would make elaborate omelets, and crisp salads. When we were done eating, we'd leave the dishes in the sink, for later.
In our room we'd listen to records, and lie together on the burgundy carpet. Sometimes we made love, but more often we'd just lay there; you clad except for a thin, brilliantly white nightgown that danced around you when there was a breeze. And when all the records were listened to, you would read me the colorful stories that you learned about in college, and you would entrance me with ancient Greek playwrights with their wars, and their women, or Russian literary geniuses, with their dark cynicism, and twisted humor.
I had always described us to the horrid in-laws, as free spirits. We both worked from home, and our fluid lifestyle required little money anyway. We decorated our tiny cottage in the countryside with bright, colorful rugs, and posters from different countries. We ate when hungry; most of our food provided by the garden you grew, or from the market place, where the butcher was friendly with us, and gave us discounts occasionally. We paid bills when they came, and we worked when we felt like it.
But when your stomach grew, along with your appetite, and we went to the doctor who told us that in five month's time we would have a baby boy, our carefree lives transformed into something else.
I abandoned by job at home for a better paying job, in a nearby city, and I would come home every night with my briefcase, and you would have dinner ready for me. And you would greet me with a kiss and ask, "How was your day sweetie?" And everything was folded into nice, neat corners of domesticity. And we were drunk with it.
And when our baby was born, I swear I was the happiest man on earth. I held him in my arms, and I looked from you, to him, and I was just basking in the feeling of it. This was my baby, and he was created, and came out of another human being; my love, my life, to create a bond between the three of us. A bond formed from ecstasy, pleasure, hard work, and love. Utter, and complete love; like out of the fairy tale books. And although I took it upon myself to cut the umbilical cord, he was still mine. Ours.
I remember the day you got sick, it started out with cold like symptoms. I woke up to a wife with a runny nose, and a fever, and you sniffled at me, and whined, "Mikey, dearest, get me some breakfast." And I laughed, and handed you a tissue, kissed your forehead, and by god I made you the best damned omelet. I took George, our boy, and placed him on the bed, above our brilliant white blanket, and let him entertain us. If I hadn't known what would come next, I would have remembered that as an entirely happy memory.
But I do know what happened after. When the cold hadn't gone away after two weeks we took you to the doctor. I remember when I helped you out of bed, you looked so thin, and sickly, like a cancer patient. Like a cancer patient.
Inside those same breasts that I had caressed, and cherished, and loved; deep inside, in the fat, lay cells that for some reason did not conform to the rest. And it spread, like food coloring on cloth, it made it's way to the rest of the breast, then the other, and then your whole body. The doctor's voice did not speak of pregnancy now; he spoke of death. Six months. And he said it was up to me to tell you.
We were having tea. I was speaking in a cockney slur. You tried to laugh, I think, but instead all that came out was a strangled squeak, laced with irony, and cynicism. It reminded me of Dostoyevsky. Not in a good way.
You had been tapping on the table, distracted. You bit your lip. "I'm going to die, aren't I?"
This time the tea spilled because we both fell to the floor, sobbing and holding each other. I never did answer you. I didn't want to believe it. I never once wanted to believe that you would die, Rose. And I never wanted to tell you that you were going to die, either. So I didn't. But you were smart, and knew, I suppose.
I never wanted to tell you about George either. I didn't want to tell you that he had never recovered from the flu. I never wanted to tell you that I held his hand, and I saw the life leave his tiny eyes, like a veil that had been lifted, and carried away in the wind. I never wanted to tell you that his hands became cold, and that they had to pry me away from him. I never wanted you to know. I just wanted you to follow the instructions on your tombstone; rest in peace.
I am still with you, Rose. Save me a seat up there.
-
It was an uncomfortably warm August day, as I folded up the letter, and placed it on her gravestone. The tears running down my cheeks had evaporated in the heat, leaving me face stinging with the salt left behind. I picked up my suitcase, and walked to my low paying job.