Counting Candles

Dearest Johnathan (or is it Jeffrey now?),

So much time has passed since the last time we spoke that, frankly, I'm quite certain that neither of us has any idea whose fault it is. And at any rate, I'm not here to point fingers or try to decide where blame should fall.

You were right about Clarissa. It's been just over a month now since the funeral, and, frankly, each day that she's gone she disappears that much more readily. It'd be cruel and inaccurate to say I'm glad she's gone, because I'm not. You can't be glad about something like that, I don't think. Those kinds of feelings dig their way up your bloodstream, a vile snake that bobs and weaves against the current to your heart, and sometimes in only a few days your veins have all turned black with contempt. The dead don't care and the living can't help you. Anyway, it's not that. But I find with each passing day that I am more and more aware of how little she helped, how little she really did for me when she was around. The teas, the various meditational practices, the trips that found their heads at unusual times and their tails in even more unusual places, they were all... what was it you called them? Sidestepping the point, I think that was the phrase you used. And the girl did it to herself, you know. Satisfied, that's the word.

At the time your tone was always accusatory, and I consistently felt as though you insisted I take a side. But in hindsight I know that challenges were pleas and I mistrusted, mistreated you in the trenches of the fits. I know you know this, but it wasn't my fault. It wasn't me.

Anyway, she's dead now and I see the point and isn't that it? Isn't that all anybody really gives a shit about? Wasn't she a vampire, and when you kill the head you kill all the rest of it? Or is she a hydra? Was. Was. That's something you never get used to, the changing of tense. It's hard enough with my fiction to go through and make sure I'm using the right tense all the time. Now I have to do it when I speak, too?

I can feel myself digressing, but you always said start in the middle and the beginning and end will sidle up fashionably late.

Isn't it time you came home? Sea legs get tired too, don't they? At the very least, please call. The gravel in your voice helps me sleep more deeply than the aromatherapy candles, which I should throw out anyway because they were from her.

Yssa turns eight on Friday. I hope I count the candles right...

Au clair de la lune...