"Cracked" – 1,9/Aug/08
In the morning you'll find a note. Not this one, because this isn't the note, obviously. The note, again not this one, will be on the kitchen counter, above the silver ware drawer. I'll have put it there because the first thing you do every morning, when you've gotten to the kitchen of course, after your morning leak and before your shower, is reach for a butter knife. You eat toast, no matter what the weather, no matter what else you may be having, you always have at least one slice of lightly burnt toast, with butter. You have a method, of course: the butter knife, the butter, the bread, the bread in the toaster, and while it's toasting you get a paper plate out and take the lid off of the butter, patiently waiting for the toast to pop up.
I've watched you do this every morning for as long as I care to remember. I've sat at the table, my tea getting cold because I'm always up so much earlier than you, and I've watched this same routine. And every morning you touch the same broken tile that cracked the day you moved in. I'm not sure how. The morning you brought your things over, I woke up and saw the tile cracked. I can only assume something happened through the night, somehow. It wasn't very big, just a sliver really, but enough of a crack that I did think (for a long while actually) that it would expand and eventually a little piece would chip off. It never did, and now that I think about it, it probably never will. The crack never grew either though. It just stayed a small crack in the tile that once a day, every day, you would pay a little attention to. And that was enough for it.
Some people believe in signs, symbols. They can spot them in anything, any situation. But they can only ever see them after the fact, and they tell everybody and emphasize how they knew, knew. But they never did anything about it. It's funny, in its own ironic way. I saw the signs too, even if I don't believe in symbolism. And I can't wait around until after the fact so I can tell everybody how I should've seen it coming. Oh if I had only paid more attention! Woe is me! Instead, in the morning you'll find a note. Not this one, because this isn't the note, obviously.
There's a crack in you, something is broken, and I don't know how it got there. I woke up one morning when you were moving in and I saw it. I didn't give it much thought initially after all it was just a small crack, perfectly harmless. But it was never repaired, and I started to wonder why. I started to wonder what would happen if it remained uncared for. Would it splinter out, expand until the whole façade was cracked and broken? Would it simply grow until the piece chipped off, leaving something raw and open and vulnerable but at the same time much more capable of allowing itself to be taken care of, fixed, made better? I won't wait to find out. I won't wait so I can say I knew all along.
Dear John, I lied. In the morning you'll find a note. This is the note.