Letters to Adonis

Chapter:: Twenty-Three

Dear you,

The nurses sat me down and told me to write a letter. They said, from the first day I’ve been admitted, that I just kept writing letters. They say I write them all to the same person, you.

I asked them who you were. Apparently your name is Adonis. And I guess the name is supposed to bring back some memories from a few years ago. They informed me that you’re my husband, and you come in three times a week. Every time I stop writing on this, to you, to think of something to say, I look up at you. The nurses sneakily pointed you out to me. They also showed me a wedding picture of us that I keep in my room. The difference between how you looked then and how you look now is your hair is longer and unkempt. You look exhausted. And the fact that you have two little girls and a little boy sitting on the couch next to you tells me why. Are these our children? I rub my head, trying to remember their names. The girls have your dark hair that matches yours in the picture down to every natural highlight. The boy has blonde hair.

I have a box sitting next to me with letters I apparently wrote to you. They start with the line dear Adonis. They always end love Ariel. When I feel I’m on the precipice of remembering, I dig out the letters as quickly as I can and try to find the story of us.

I wrote two-three paged letters to you, but they don’t tell me nearly enough. I wrote of a love that only exists in movies and books. The fact that I had such a grasp on it and I can’t even remember it upsets me. I’m confined to a wheelchair now.

The fact of how much things can change in a span of time surprises me. I wrote these letters starting ten years ago. That means I’m twenty-seven now, and the sad thing is that I feel twice that. My dad comes in and visits sometimes. He says it’s getting harder to see me this way and we always have an argument following the statement.

I feel like I’m writing these letters more to me than to you. And I guess that’s fine. I can’t stop looking up at you. It’s one of those days where I feel like I’ve met you from somewhere. I ache for you, not knowing fully who you are and how well our relationship is, and I ache to be the mother to the kids sitting by you. Do they know it’s their mother they come to visit three times a week?

I move to get up and forget I’m in a wheelchair now. I glance around and hope nobody notices. My handwriting is so tiny it looks like an old woman’s scrawl for a grocery list. I want to know the story of us. Every fight, every kiss, every tear, and every time you made my heart soar.

I put the letters in the box and put the box on my lap. I wheel myself over to you. I notice that you were glancing at me but fix your gaze back to a random magazine you’re holding. The kids are looking from you to me and back again. If they don’t know I’m their mother, they must have figured something out by now.

“I need you to tell me the story of us, Adonis. I miss my life, I miss our kids, I miss you.” I tell you before I start crying these big ugly tears. I now think of my mother, who I have little reason to think of these days except for when I can remember everything. I think of how lonely this disease is, how much of a horrible person this makes me for not seeing her all the times I should have before she moved homes. I wonder if she’s remembering things today or if she’s in a drooling state of a vegetable, eyes glazed and fixed to a window that she never looks out of. And this thought scares me, how sensitive life is and how easily you can remember something you’ve fought to bury for a long time. But now, I need to remember.

You smile at me, this gorgeous smile that sparks memories. You grab my arm rests and scoot the chair closer to you, running your hand down my arm softly. The short burst of affection has me smiling, and I feel like I know exactly who you are; even if it’s just for a second.

Love forever, Ariel