Unsent Letters #6

One of these days I’ll come visit

Who knows whose photo this is.

Dear S.,

I think about writing to you at the bus stop, in the freezing cold. Who knows why. Bad call on public transportation this morning, a week to Christmas. But driving is probably worse. So I’m standing here, with a few others, stomping my feet. The display says nine minutes, it said twelve ten minutes ago. There must be some massive traffic jam, somewhere.

A school bus stops first, the children inside wave hi. I wave back, trying not to leave my ungloved hand out in the cold too long, smiling. They seem excited about my reciprocation. The bus arrives. On board, a lady complains loudly to the driver. She is petite, and wearing mid-blue. Not my fault, he says, the whole city is one thick, unmovable jam. I waited for half an hour out in the cold, and now I’m late for work and they’ll count this as a permit and tickets have gotten so expensive and if I can’t even rely on the 8:07 being on time then what should I do, she rants. No one interjects. She’s right, I think. She continues, repeating the same things all over again, very loud. Can you keep it down, a voice from the back pleads. She takes a call from work; I’ll be three minutes I swear. And gets off.  

Rocked by the now silent bus ride, I’m looking out the window, and thinking of you. I often think of you, of what the adult you would look like, your gestures, your body language, the tone of your voice, the clothes you’d wear, your tastes and preferences. Whether you’d cling to your political views or be open to listen to the opposite side. Whether you’d complain loudly or keep things to yourself. Whether you’d be theatrical or subdued. How you’d be with kids, with your kids; whether you’d have kids at all. I often think of what your life would be like, had you had one beyond fourteen.   

I didn’t see much of you, that last period. You were in and out of hospitals. One day, after a long absence, you appeared at our usual playground with a bright orange beanie and no hair underneath. You were very pale, your eyes holding an empty gaze. I was a little scared. You showed me a photo of Loredana Berté, pulled from your back pocket. I didn’t know you liked her so much, I said. We joked about this. What I remember clearly of those days is both an inability and an unwillingness to fully realize what was going on; I’m still unsure of which of the two prevailed.

Of the ones we used to hang out with, I’m no longer in touch with anybody. Francesco, Settimio, Marco, your brother Graziano -- our lives took different directions, different shapes. I spoke briefly with Francesco a couple of years ago, coincidentally. It was after that fifth grade reunion arranged by Katia. She managed to track down only five or six of us, and when we gathered, someone retrieved a class photo. In it, Francesco was the only one lying on the floor while the rest of us were standing or sitting. The only one without a smock, for some reason. He wore a red sweater and a pair of multicolored trousers that looked like a patchwork of fabric pieces. Francesco couldn’t make it tonight, said Katia. Would you please give him my number? I’d love to get back in touch, I enthused. When we spoke, after forty-five years, it was like speaking to someone for the first time. How weird.

Sometimes I wonder whether our lives, too, would have unavoidably drifted apart. A legit thought, depicting something highly likely, yet one I shy away from. You and I were as close as Francesco and me, best friends. In a world with no internet and no instant connections, time and circumstances can turn best friends into strangers. I like to think this wouldn’t happen to us. I like to think that, if only you could pass that terrible period and somehow recover, we would continue to be as close as we were then, despite life’s twists and turns. It took me a while to realize that you were gone. When it happened, I was in the basement where we used to rehearse with the band, playing my guitar, alone. Someone knocked and broke it to me. I continued to play, as if nothing happened. It was something I refused to let into my ears, that piece of news. I didn’t even come see you, on your deathbed. I couldn’t.

I know where you’re buried; it’s in the little cemetery of a countryside village, not far from our hometown. I never came to visit. A few Summers ago I went there to take some photos; it’s a picturesque place, nestled among the hills. But I didn’t go to the cemetery. What’s the point, I’ve always thought. You’re not there, if you’re anywhere at all. Long ago, someone told me your tombstone is etched with a phrase you wrote in your final days. Man is like snow: white, pure, and immaculate as it falls; dark, dirty, and fleeting as it melts away. I don’t know if these are your exact words, but I’ve always remembered the sense.

My stop is approaching, I’d better get ready. It’s a beautiful sunny morning, the air is crisp and the sky a deep, reassuring blue. I like the light at this time of year, I wish I had brought my camera. One of these days I’ll come visit your grave, and read the phrase. Please, try to be there. 

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"Unsent Letters" is a series released every other week. These are imaginary letters to fictitious or real individuals who may or may not have influenced my life, not always mirroring actual events.

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