Janet, I --

17 MAR 00   2028p

To my dearest friend and wife, Janet;

Most of the time I believe that you don't think that I Love You, and maybe it doesn't seem that I do. BUT, I do and always always will love you, Janet. You are the only woman that I've ever been in love with and I can say that now because all the others in my life that I thought I loved haden't ever hadn't (ever) made me feel that feelings inside that you give me. I'm Sorry that I don't know how to show you better but with your patience and help I promise to keep improving. I want you to know that you are my (one and) only friend in this world.

Janet, I --

-- put the pen down and stare at the wall. It's empty and bare, but I can still see cleaner square where it hung. Like tunnel vision, it wraps itself around my eyes and pulls me in, further and further until I'm swallowed in a vacuum of memory. It was a photograph from the park, the day she sat on the swing beneath the willow tree. That was eight years ago. Eight years since that perfect day, with the warbling birds and tiresome brown leaves that kept rustling noisily beneath our feet. Since we walked by the riverside and talked about how we hoped the monsters wouldn't come out when the sun went down. How we sat on the bench and watched the fullmoon crest the treetops, when I jokingly said that I would turn into a monster when it was within full view.

A car speeds past outside my window, followed by another, both exceeding the speed limit. My desk shakes slightly and I come back to myself -- though all I want to do is stay in the memory. Where has the time gone? Eight years sped by like those headlights past the window, hurtling like mechanical clockwork towards this moment. I've become a recluse. This dim office become the only room of my existence outside of food and the need to piss. The television prattles on and the false light from the lamp  nauseates me to the point of vomiting. The acid reflux in my throat bribes me into taking another Tums with my vodka, overreacting to a persistent stomach pain for weeks now. It's probably an ulcer.

I think this is what they call a mid-life crisis.

I've lost all direction. The days all seem the same and I've no heart to leave this open-door prison. I can hear her through the walls even now, the hollow sound of running water as she washes solitary dishes. I sigh and look at the page again, yellow notepad paper with more empty lines than filled, and even those filled lines filled with scratched out words. I mouth the words to the bare wall.

"How does love come to this?"

No one answers but for the slight rattling of the desk again. My hand picks itself back up and holds the pen straight. It traces the last words written with a mind all it's own, and I speak the words aloud.

"Janet, I -- "

Throw the pen down and clench my fist. The pain in my stomach redoubles on itself and I fold over. It recedes after a moment and I stare at the wall again. We walked back to the car that night and I remembered the surprise as we were about to leave. Stopping, I opened the bag in the darkness and pulled out the box. I told her to wait a minute and got out. She was watching curiously and a I struck the light -- a moment later, the sparkler ignited and began spreading it's luminescence. It lit her face and I saw her smile excitedly.

The desk rattles again and I realize that I've had enough.

Slamming the chair back, I rise and walk to the door, grab the handle, and pull it open. The hallway greets me with a nostalgic change in the air and I feel the carpet bristle beneath my feet. The sound of dishes grows louder on the other side of a door. I take a breath. I push the door open forcefully and she jumps, spinning quickly as her face turns white. The sight of her still makes me smile -- and I do.

"Janet, I -- "

Will never know how this ends. I found this letter, folded in yellow notepad paper and written in pen with a flowing hand, in a book I bought several years ago at a garage sale by an organization called Easter Seals. The book was called Left Behind. The series was in it's prime and I thought I'd one day get around to reading it. That was six years ago; I still haven't gotten around to reading it. Honestly, the note that I found in it is the only reason it's still lying around. I paid twenty-five cents for what would become a treasure that has left me wondering what happened to this man and his desperate attempt to hold on to his apparently estranged wife. I could track them down if I chose to. I could find out. There is a name written inside the book. Not only that, but also inside the book was a receipt from the Trumbull County courts. A receipt for a woman named Janet, dated February 16, 2000 at 12:42:15 PM.

For six years I have held this note and done nothing, waiting for the moment when it felt right. Six years in between the pages of Left Behind, then shuffled into my writing notebook, then slipped into my desk. Six years of solitude, all by itself, as lonesome as the man who wrote it must have felt. There has been a thousand instances where I've thought about this note, but here is the first since finding it that I've deeply thought about what might have happened. There was a time when I thought that this story ended terribly. I thought their marriage would dissolve and pass into divorce, that the woman would find love again while the man faded into solitude. Why would I change my mind, then?

I choose to believe that this is the way it did happen. It happened this way because if there is a moment when we allow the things we want and love to slip away, then we have lost ourselves. If over the years I thought that this man was surely dead by now over a shattered heart and dream, it's now that I've realized that if we don't put hope and care into our lives, we're doomed to fail no matter what. When the world crumbles beneath our feet, we have two choices.

Smile or don't smile.

We can change our lives. All we have to do is do it.