You hated to share. My God did you hate sharing. Your order at the restaurant. Your dessert. Your clothes. Your family. Your kids. Me.
Anyone who dared to share with you your family, they were an immediate threat. You loved us too much to share with the rest of the world. You wanted us all to yourself. You would have lived in a hut with the three of us on a deserted island and you’d be completely happy. I thought at the time that I adored, but not “loved” you for that. I appreciated that you wanted us all to yourself. I had to support you. I had to help you push everyone away and out of our life. I never wished to push them away. You were my wife and I needed to be on your side even if I didn’t completely agree. I always believed in “Happy wife, happy life.” God damn were we happy. Yeah we had our ups and downs, but we were happy. Beautiful life. Beautiful family. Beautiful friends. Beautiful careers. Beautiful house. Beautiful cars. Fucking beautiful. Everything is fucking beautiful. Even after you’re gone, life remains beautiful. Painful, but beautiful. Its beauty helps alleviate the pain. An Aspirin for the heart, if I may.

I am mentally… available.

I need to bounce ideas back and forth. I need to hear philosophy. I need to listen to history. I need to discuss politics. I need an update on life. I need to catch up with the rest. They had a head start on me 27 years ago. When I was 19. That was the age when I met you. 9/1/1991. I keep staring at the date. I never noticed they were all 1’s and 9’s. No other numbers. 1’s and 9’s. I mix them. I break them. Trying to find a clue.

I will catch up with them, baby. I will surpass them. That’s how I play. I love to be ahead, mentally. Calculating the odds. The options. The outcome.

Laurie Polter suggested I use the “Voice Memo” app to jot down my thoughts. I tried it. It’s weird hearing yourself talk out loud. It’s not the same when it’s in your head. My words flow in full force. Waves and waves of thoughts and words written to perfection. I can’t put them down. They immediately vanish the nanosecond I think of them.

I love talking to you.
Just you and me.
I miss
you and me.
I miss how we used to be.
I now agree.
I don’t want to share you with anyone but me.
[To be continued.]

 

Okay, I’m back for you baby.
Had to take a break. I couldn’t after that last line I wrote. Had to go find laughter somewhere. You know how much I love to laugh. I too know how much you love to laugh. Every time you were in the hospital for some emergency internal bleeding in the belly. Ectopic pregnancy after ectopic pregnancy. Each one almost killing you. The Angel of Death chased you down, but you kept outrunning her. Until the end. Your new journey. In a different dimension. Sights and sounds that are beautiful. Peaceful. Serenity. BOYA. They all turn and look back at the source of the noise. There you’re standing with your arms crossed flexing your muscles all dressed up in your sexy black dress and your sexy shoes. Never having a face. You never did. You were so real. So careless. So free. Able to make fun of yourself without any regards for your image. You wanted to be the sexiest and funniest girl in the room. God damn were you sexy. Sofia Loren sexy. An hourglass shape for a body. You turned heads and I loved it. You and I used to play a game when we first met. We would high five each other if we catch someone else checking the other out. I’d point them out after I high five you, and you would point the ones you caught out to me and high five me back.

I was flat broke when I met you. We weren’t supposed to meet that night. You were down the shore at your father’s house watching the Eagles game that Sunday. I was home still recovering from the night before when a new to the area friend asks me to take him out and show him a good time in the city.
Chrissy had called you to come to the city and go out clubbing. You were furious. You didn’t want to leave the shore and have to deal with shore traffic coming back. You were 25. I was 19.
I told you I was 22, you told me you were 23. Fucking hysterical.

I found out your real age 7 months after I met you. We were celebrating your birthday at your father’s house in Society Hill. Everyone congratulated you on turning 25. You were sitting on my lap. I looked up at you in shock. “You lied to me?” I smile.
“Well, yeah, by a couple of years.” You confess with that cute grin of yours.
“Well, since the cat is out of the bag, I’m 19.” I laugh. We both bust out laughing.
“They’re only numbers. I’m way wiser than you anyway. So it doesn’t really matter how fucking old you are.” I’m still laughing.

You had issues with your father. But who doesn’t?
I always thought his tough love with you and your brother made you the person you were. Humble while showy. You could have been a spoiled brat, but you weren’t raised that way. His tough love; however, was too extreme for you. It shattered your self-esteem. But you worked through it. We both worked on it together.
I hate fucking bullies. You were bullied by your family. You didn’t deserve it. I stood up for you on countless times. I was pissed at them for treating you that way. I got into shouting matches with uncles, cousins, and your father for you. I didn’t care then and I still don’t care today. You went to battle for me, I went to battle for you. I didn’t care how foolish I looked. I didn’t care how disrespectful I was. They hurt you. That’s all I care about.

 

[Cigarette break]

 

Baby, I can’t anymore tonight. I’m spent.

I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

 

Good night my sweet.

 

I love you,

 

Me

 

[Continued…]

 

I can’t go to sleep. I’m thinking about you. I’m writing to you. I think to myself “Am I living in denial? Am I writing you these letters to keep you alive? Is this is my stage of “Denial?”

It cannot be. I will always write to you, I fucking hope I don’t ever stop. I will keep writing you every day until my dying day. That will fucking suck for my next mate/s. Ha. Had to throw it in there. Yeah, that would fucking suck for them to having you share my heart. Oh well. I’m totally fine with that. My writing brings a smile to my face. A real fucking reality show. Live, nonetheless.

 

Damn you  used to watch these stupid reality shows. They’re so fucking dumb. They make you dumber by the second. “It’s fascinating.” You’d excuse it. As if it helped. All pre-staged, pre-written, and pre-produced fucking dramas.  People eat this shit. People with no lives who cared about other people with no lives. Fucking brilliant. This country is going places. And you were one of them baby. You ate that shit up. I swear I’d feel dumber just walking past our bedroom TV towards the bathroom. Waves of dumbness just blows through my brain and then decimates past the TV. Dumb TV, Dumb people. Wasted brains. Shame.

 

Most of the time I called you “dumbass” because you just were. People who would meet us for the first time; some times more than once in our presence, would be baffled by the way we talked at one another you and I. They would consider me rude speaking to you in such fashion. “Very disrespectful.” they’d whisper to each other. “How DARE he?” they’d question. You and I would laugh at their reaction. It was a thing you and I understood. We saw eye-to-eye. What they couldn’t understand that neither you nor I ever cared. We never cared. We knew we were made for each other, what matters what we said to each other. Who cares?

“I want to beat the shit out of you.” You’d yell.

“Bring it bitch” I’d challenge you.

You know you had no shot. So you use your tongue instead. You talked your ass off. You were relentless. You never stopped talking. Ever. In my ear. Talking. Fucking talk talk talk. LMAO.

Damn I miss your fucking talks now. Painful as they may be, I fucking miss them. “Shut the fuck up.” and smile at you. “Can’t you just fucking stop talking?” I lunge at you in bed pinning your arms down on both sides. Kiss your mouth to keep you quite. But you keep on fucking talking around my mouths laughing. “You’re an asshole. Stop. Fucking kiss me.” I tell you.

 

Every night you talked. Every night I told you to “Shut the fuck up.” Every night I kissed you. Every night. Every night, my baby, no more.

 

[Continued…]

1:12am

I couldn’t sleep. I keep thinking about the numbers 9/1/1991. What’s with these numbers. I opened up this letter again, and started to read it again. I was 19 in 9/1/1991. It hit me. Well, something did. There are two 1991’s.

Age 19/9/1, lose the dashes. 1991 1991. Fuck. What does that mean?? You and me represented by the year? Why isn’t your age in there? You were 25 at the time.

I’m freaking out. What does it mean? Am I just fishing here for something out of nothing? Just a coincidence? Reading too much into it?

Fuck.