The Things That Stay

Letter 7: Simon Dalaigh to Miss Petal Burke - February 25th, 1965

God, I went and forgot last week’s letter—I know how you expect them regularly, and I’m a bloody sod for forgetting. It’s not in my nature to forget, especially not something like your letters, but I’ve been busy this week. And that’s not sarcasm, it truly isn’t! I’ve actually been incredibly occupied, believe it or not. For the first time in quite awhile someone besides you and your aunt has enough patience for me! –What a thought, that one. At least she has enough patience often, though she looses it sometimes—with me being who I am, as you surely know. And I know I haven’t told you about her yet; I figured that I’d wait for the opportune time.

            But! The anticipation must continue, since there are a few other things I’d like to discuss beforehand, since I know you like to keep updated with my health predicaments. Well, the hospital has started me on a new medication called a bronchodilator a few weeks ago, and it’s helped a bit. Allston tells me that it’s supposed to do something fancy to my ‘bronchial passage’—dilate it or whatever medical jargon gibberish he used. I’m sure you get the gist, though. Still, I’m a veritable human cocktail of drugs, I swear: a Pez dispenser of antibiotics and painkillers. And now they’ve got me doing all of these absurd breathing exercises and stretches like I’m some sort of flower child in San Francisco! You really should see it: I look absolutely ridiculous. But I have found that I’m quite limber. Perhaps I’d be happier on a hippie convoy than previously thought.

           

In any event, I finally got a new radio—that old one of ours was always so dodgy, you know. But I’ve kept it, of course: in your little coffer by my bed with everything else, right next to Gran’s. I really am a hoarder, but I just can’t bring myself to part with our old things. Call me a sap all you want, but it is what it is. However, this one hardly has any static, so I can listen to Caroline and London without interruption instead of your constant stream of Jazz—which I don’t mind in small doses, but the smoother the Jazz, the less tolerance I have.

            So! On to current affairs: I’m free! Or at least temporarily. We’ll see how things fare. The source of my freedom, you wonder? Well, exemption in my case has taken the form of the stuffy, serious and lovely Miss Holly Joyce Halliburton. She prefers Just Holly. I’m still trying to figure out whether or not you two would take to each other. Anyway, I mentioned her briefly in my letter late last month—she’s the lady who was called in by the hospital to accompany me during my imminent expiration, though as I’m sure you realize things didn’t go exactly as planned and ad fin, here I am. After all, I may not be all that good at living, but I’m sure as hell not ready for heaven.

            As I was saying, I properly met Holly after my drug-induced stupor; despite my prior drooling and melodrama, she was relatively pleasant to me, though she’s certainly not of the warm and fuzzy variety—more of a Stonehenge type of girl, really. But she’s very witty and clever, you know, and even has a decent sense of humour once she loosens up a bit. In short, we had a nice little chat and discussed the poetry in her book, and when she departed, she left it behind. Long story short, I blackmailed her into becoming my pen pal and now I’m her invalid sidekick on her nursing escapades across the homeland. We’re quite the team: like Rocky and Bullwinkle, only with more oxygen tanks, Volkswagens and collect calls from prison. I’m still working on cementing a more proper, orthodox friendship with her—my autonomy from the hospital depends on it, after all. It’s tough going, though: she’s too sensible to fall for my considerable charm, alas. And I really would have considered correspondence with her roommate, Sadri, but when Holly said the girl was going to Oxford, I knew there was no use in it: she’d never have the time to help me with University and a whole academic career ahead of her. I’d be left behind. Again. So you must understand my persistence, Petal—Holly’s my only way out, and I don’t intend on loosing my freedom again.

            Well. That took a turn for the dramatic, didn’t it? I really need to tune down the melodrama at times. Anyway, I hope you’re well, Pet—no, I know you are. You’re always fine, you’re always doing okay. I’ll write you again as soon as I can.

Love you,

Simon

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