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A preview of a letter to James—the ghost of The Disconsolate!
June 1, 2014
Dearest James,
We get our ideas from the world around us. From music, from faces, from those that go by holding hands and others that shun an outstretched one. We get our ideas from the constant alpha that rules our mornings, plowing into the silence with sadness and endless possibility. From the omega that steadies our days and completes us. I get my ideas from you.
I try to cycle your presence in my life. I hatch beautiful plans to live a saline life. Sans-James. Because you brought passion to me again and I realize now—that passion gives me life. I will discover love again; I
will not allow myself to waste away without human touch. I remember feeling you in the darkness, as I tried to pull you back out of numerous moments you disappeared. You—calling out that you love me,
maintaining our truth that we will always be in love.
I remember the final time that the shadows put their claim on you. Yet it wasn’t the darkness that came for you, James. You became dust; you became something both new and ancient. I hold hope that you found peace in that magical moment of light. Will I rest ‘till I know for sure? Will I ever know for sure? You return in dreams and I get to hold you. It will take time for this to change. It may never change.
Many months ago, you reminded me that your love for Jade was a solid concrete slab. And you wouldn’t have had your boys without her. While I know this is true, I pretended I understood your continuing commitment to her, and your love. But the secret I keep—the promise I made to protect her—haunts even my shadow. I remember your gravelly voice, the way the sun dropped, and your eyes caught it all. I remember the vow you wished to keep, “I won’t let us be cut off in the middle of another sentence (or a kiss!) by another astronomical twilight.”
You just had one more thing to say. I watched you, a pale version of your former self, exist with a translucency you only get from death. Your lips parted. “Aislin, I will love you always, always…” The sun
encircled you with no regard to us. It was so different from our nights, where civil twilight became nautical twilight and then nautical twilight became astronomical twilight and I didn’t even know there were so many twilights before you died.
May this letter be the last I write, still believing you might read it. Am I to arrange every word in just the way I think your previous sensibilities would approve, or do I have the strength to become myself?
Ever,
Aislin
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