Funny Thing, Life

Part One: The Ghost of Letters Past

   I go, with a couple of my girlfriends, to the Haunted Museum.  I have the letter for Zak tucked in my back pocket, the letters of his name are just visible above the seam.  Our group is about 6 people and my girlfriends and I are in the back, for the beginning.  I've heard stories of people jumping out and scaring you and, in one room, the smell will overwhelm you.  Back here just feels safer.  I've seen him walking down the hallway twice now.  I had my head down slightly, but my pupils enlarged when he came toward me.  A memory of the first visit played like a broken record in my mind.  My words had been caught in my throat and I was awestruck that I'd finally found him...the man of my dreams, and he was within an arm's reach.

   Our group reaches a room, which had been closed when I'd been here the first time, filled with memorabilia of celebrities who have passed away.  In the corner sits Liberace's piano.  I instantly feel a guttural pull in it's direction and when I walk to it, I'm overcome with sadness.  Memories from my senior prom surface and cloud my mind.  A time I'd thought I'd buried long ago, causes my eyes to burn as tears fight to materialize.  I kneel down and try to calm myself before I become hysterical.  Our tour guide made her way to me, empathetically placing a hand on my shoulder, and asking if I wanted to go on, with a warning that it would get heavier as we move along.   I collected myself and nodded that I was fine.  Just a moment of weakness, I told myself.  She led the way to the next room and then the next, and the next.  These rooms are a blur to me as I had been distracted with why a single object could trigger so much sorrow and how it had affected me so severly.  It made me realize, I had yet to learn to let it go.

   We climbed stairs, that led to a room portrayed as a fun house, which was surround by clowns (this was the scariest section for me as I am deathly afraid of clowns).  I held tight to the friend in front of me so I had a blind guide, since I was watching only the floor in order to not have another clown-induced melt down, like last time.  My other friend stood behind me, holding tightly to my shirt, as to not get left behind.  She whispered something to me about the letter missing from my pocket.  I frantically searched both back pockets and tried to think if I had bumped into anyone or anything.  The answer is no.  It must've fallen out during my episode in the room with the piano.  No way was I going to ask to go back.  She suggested I alert the guide, but out of embarrassment, I shook my head.  I figured if someone found it, they would do the honorable thing and deliver it to it's intended recipient.  Still, my heart raced at the thought he might actually read my words.  I thought about how I'd choked the first time we'd met and knew I'd never have the courage to hand it over if the opportunity arose.  I got butterflies thinking of the literal spark when his fingers brushed mine while handing him my pen to autograph his fortune teller card from the beginning of the tour.

   At the close of the hour and a half long tour through the mansion, our tour hostess let us out at the gift shop.  We were greeted by a lovely older woman behind the counter, who's pride for her son's success was apparent through her smile.  Nothing could steal my interest from the awareness of my empty pocket, as I casually looked at the souvenirs.  We exited to the parking lot where his truck sat, parked across two spots. A scenario played through my mind.  He gets the letter and laughs at it, then crumbles it up and makes a 3 point waste basket shot with the wadded up words of my dreams.  I wonder if that's where the saying "crushed dreams" came from...a wadded piece of paper containing someone's inner most desires.  I shook it off as the ladies call me to the car.  They attempt to comfort me, but my self esteem was just lost in there along with my sensibility.  What the hell was I doing?  I am married (albeit unhappily) but married women weren't supposed to act this way.  You know, acting like a silly girl with a school crush.

   When I got back home, I plastered a pretend smile, masking my disaster of the day, and greet my girls.  I ushered them through the normal routine, homework, dinner, showers and bed.  As I lay in bed myself, Husband already sound asleep, guilt over my nonexistent infidelity and questions about why I have these feelings all of the sudden, play through my mind until I finally fall into a restless sleep.