Surreal Songs

I think of the time I left you.

My last unposted letter to you, 

First off, I moved again. This time, permanently. All that money that I was saving? Splurged it on a two storey bungalow. I have a garden now. I have been meaning to get some plants, some flowers to earth, but I can't seem to get out of the bed these days. Don't worry; the maid comes in the morning to cook my meals. She brings her daughter over sometimes, apparently in an effort to cheer me up. I can't seem to recollect the little girl's name right now. 

I have adopted the cat that lived in the house before I moved in. She gave birth to seven kittens the day before. Four of them are grey and three are black. I want them all to survive. They seem to be the only reason I still muster up the energy to go downstairs sometimes. 

My neighbors have a toddler. Incessant, battery-driven thing, he is. I feel like an intruder in their lives, privy to all their conversations. I wonder if they can hear me. I wonder if they even know that someone's moved in next door. 

Perhaps, I am just a fleeting thought in their busy, young lives, one that arises when they happen to look out their window. But I think about them more than I probably should. Strangers always have the strangest stories to tell, something that indulges my eavesdropping. A habit of mine you always found questionable. 

So, yes. I know from the confines of my bedroom, what problem ails my neighbor's television when they call an electrician over. I know that the child worships his father, even though it is his mother that runs behind him every second of every day. I know the couple fight often, always at night when the boy has been put to bed. Still, they don't bother to lower their voices. 

Does it not matter that I can hear them?

Anyways, how are you? How is your heart? Does it still skip a few beats, every now and then? I hope you are taking care of yourself. I don't wish for another funeral, least of all, yours. 

Did you read my memoir? When I wrote of our years together, I couldn't tell the truth apart from fiction. It kept me up at nights. Was I doing justice to you, or at least my memories of you? If you haven't already read it, don't now. I still fear of disappointing you. 

You are so far away from me. I live in a valley nestled by the hills, you live on a shore washed by sea.  You know, the monsoon enters the country from your place, and ends in mine. I've seen it in all forms now, the rain. Roaring and thunderous, in some places. Soft and gentle, in others. Here, the rain comes down as hail sometimes. At times when that happens, I have a strange urge to stumble outside, open my mouth upwards and taste those pebbles of ice from the heavens. 

I would go numb. 

*****

From Paris With Love by Melody Gardot.