The Ways We Wonder

Letter from a loving husband to his wife.










Hey there gorgeous. 62 years huh? Damn those Red Sox. I remember staring at your from afar, light ale gripped tightly in your fingers, hair curly and a bit weathered. To this day I think its strange that the bar was completely full of men, and then lifted to greater heights by your presence and beauty. Fred tells me that I'm senile and there were other girls there. I guess I believe him, but I was only seeing you.

The light danced down from the tinted yellow bar lights, sort of like being in a basement with cracks of sunlight flowing through the aged floorboards. I looked down to my shoes, soaking wet from the rain we ran from to get there. I looked back up quickly in disbelief, failing to comprehend the complexity of your being. A numbing pain shook my shoulder when my zoned out eyes shuttered back to focus. Fred, that flippant sonofabitch, wanted me to buy him a drink. He lacked courtesy and finances to reciprocate the 10 I already contributed to his malnourished stomach. I ordered two lagers, not even making eye contact with the tender of the bar. I hate Lager. Why the hell did I order this? One track minds always prevail.

I have always been slightly introverted, in a way that I cannot explain. I spoke with elegant women, but never one of your stature, until that afternoon of course. That day, I had the courage of a bull fighter and the bull. To fighter to take the risk of the bull killing him, and the bull to not care who was around him. I went straight up to you Jess, and remember what I said? Cheers! I said cheers! Good lord, after 30 minutes of drooling from a distance, ordering beer I hated, and now requiring shoulder surgery from Fred's arm blows, all I could muster up with was cheers. Tommy tough guy leaning hard against the radio laughed, as did you, but you blushed. Oh you blushed. Blood flew to your face in a subtle motion and mimicked your strawberry blonde hair. My world was you then, as it is today.

The doctor tells me it ain't good Jess. He told me to make "arrangements." I told him that I already had, and they are bringing in a temporpedic bed later on today to put next to yours. "So make sure the nurse on staff directs them to the right room," I told him. I told that Jess, I did. I never left you in that bar when you laughed, I never left you when the bottom of a bottle was the only thing you wanted to see, and I sure as hell ain't leaving you now.

I remember that afternoon when I lost my job, and in the same day my goddamn car broke down in the rain. The world felt like it was swallowing me whole like Moby Dick. Do you remember Jess? Do you remember what you said? I'll tell you Jess, you said "Jimmy, take a breath. The air is sweet. I am yours, and you're with me. Tomorrow will come as it always does, with hopefully a bit more sun." All I am wishing for is tomorrow Jess. And tomorrow, I will flip another penny in the well outside and wish for the same thing. In 62 years there has not been a tomorrow that you weren't in. I am not sure I want to see what that looks like.

You brighten up my day with this effervescent glow. Whenever I begin to careen off my axis, like a centripetal force you get me back to speed. I asked the doctor an hour ago if he could bring in a shitty lager from 1950, any shit lager would do. I also asked him to bring in something that was yellow and had alcohol. You never told me what you were drinking that day, but it smelt sweet on your breath. If tomorrow ain't coming I want to go back to the first day. Lets drink to the times we had and loved, and I'll put back enough lager to see you above.

The air is sweet Jess. I love you.

Jimmy