From the Diary of a Man

January 5, 20—

I have grown tired. A lot has changed, taxing me in the process, since you left me in favor of that eternal rest. I know you had no control of your heart stopping, but my eyes have grown weary from seeing you in all the pictures on the walls of this place we used to call home. And seeing you in my fading and crackling dreams does me no favor either. Sleep may be a foretaste of death, but even in sleep I feel an infinite distance away from you. 

Ricky brought over the grandkids yesterday, and they still ask where you are. And I still smile at them with that empty smile I sometimes gave you (the one that always made you feel shallow in your stomach). They are still too young to really understand where you went. Or, I guess, how you left this place. How is it that death is so simple yet so hard to utter? I would rather attempt to describe a color to a blind person than tell children that all of us eventually become blades of grass. But I ramble. Forgive me. 

I miss you, Becky. I know Ricky does as well, but he has grown distant from me these past couple months, as if he is trying to find himself closer to you, and the only way to do that would be to move from my grasp. Does he still visit your grave? I was too afraid to ask him yesterday, but I'm sure he does when he can. 

He's a busy man now—with his family, career, and responsibilities. I know he cares for his family as deeply as I cared for mine, but he probably has a better way of showing it. I hope one day he will see that I always meant well.

You always said Ricky has forgiven me, but I know he still holds animosity toward me. I thought it best that he stay in this city and raise his family here, and I still think that, although I know he'd rather be in Virginia. You were always supportive of what he wanted to do, and that irritated me, Becky. I have only ever done what I thought was right, and in your own, non-confrontational way, you would go behind my back. Or, at least, that's how it felt. I fear Ricky will grow tired, as I have, and stop visiting me. 

I still don't know where Valerie is.

But on a brighter note, as you always preferred things to be, my hands do not hurt as much today. I'm sorry I didn't write yesterday, but the arthritis was too much. But it's bearable today, so I'm writing, just like you always wanted. 

I've been reading more about science lately. Well, more so about atoms and molecules. It is very interesting stuff, Becky, but I don't think you would have cared much for it. But did you know that our atoms will never be destroyed? They just get recycled and used again for something else. It's nice knowing that even in death you will be helping out by providing bits of you to trees and the air and mountains. They should name a mountain after you. Perhaps atoms from you will eventually find their way back to the stars from which they were forged (Did you know that we come from stars, Becky?). 

But as I said before, I have grown tired. I don't see things as bright and vividly as I used to, although I never saw things quite the way you did. You were the first one to show me what it truly meant to see, and all it took was seeing the back of your head. I still remember that day: how I rushed to leave my tiny apartment so that I could get some morning coffee. You were five places ahead of me in line, waiting just as everyone else, and your deep brown hair captivated my nine-to-five existence. Each strand of your hair was like a strand of light entering my pupils for the first time. And then I looked at you as you turned around, and I was blinded.

Becky, you gave the next fifty years of my life meaning. You were my light. But just like every light, you burned out. And now it is dark in this house we called home, and I am tired. I take some solace in the fact that you're still here in some ways, such as the scent of you on your clothes in the closet, and how some of your recycled atoms are probably still floating around in the bedroom. But I can tell your scent is fading, and your atoms are drifting back to the stars.

I'm not sure how much longer I have, but I think the burning out of my own dim light is drawing near. Ricky and I have already secured a plot next to your grave, so, soon enough, I'll be next door to you. And then, for a good amount of time, we can feed the grass and trees and worms together. And when the world is all but ruins, and we are nothing more than sand in the deserts and rust on old beams, I hope that my atoms will still mingle closely to yours.