Say Goodnight Before You Leave

21. Rainy Days

Past. Seven months later.

It was simpler in my mind than in reality to watch time pass by and the last time I saw Mads getting further and further from me.

Maybe it was a stupid idea to have so many pictures of him up on my bedroom wall, but it was the only way to keep his face fresh in my mind - forever laid down on my sofa a can of coke in his hand and a crooked smile on his lips, or maybe during Christmas telling me something with his hand gestured to the side, or sleeping under the shadow of his cap while we were at the park.

Life felt like a sandcastle crumbling down in slow motion. Things rarely satisfied me and each day felt a little emptier; mom was more and more exhausted, spending longer shifts at the restaurant; and dad, for as much as he tried to bring his body back to normal, the pain was the tide he had to swim against, a tide too strong. At the moment he could walk with the assistance of a cane but the pains he felt were evident in his eyes.

There were good and bad days, days where the pain would offer a truce and leave him for days in a row, but most of the time he was sulky hiding the suffering under moments of silence and occasional dark humor. He was too proud to ask for help, and even if he did there wasn't much we could.

It hurts to walk out the door each morning and leave him here alone. He couldn't go job hunting - it was painful to walk, dangerous to drive and people aren't willing to hire a man in his fifties with a newly acquired disability. But nothing I felt compared to what I saw in my mother's face when they would call her asking to stay longer hours or get earlier to work.

"It feels like I'm abandoning my own heart." She told me one night, after a couple of glasses of wine. "I wish I could take his pain and make mine."

"It would hurt him more to see you suffer."

She gives a lopsided smile. "I'm tougher than him, darling."

I laugh internally - two stubborn souls in love. "He's strong too, he shows way less than we know of."

And I guess I found my way to cope with the routine, allowing me to be sucked into it, and with words - more specifically in Mads' words. At least once in two weeks I would receive a letter from him and eventual long calls. But to make international calls was too pricey for me, and I couldn't deny the romance and delicacy of a handwritten letter.

The last person who made me write a letter - ink and paper - was my grandmother, Maysilee. She's gone now, but I really loved her, only people that I love can make me write letters. I never have much to say, I'm sorry about that. I guess I write cause I know somehow, for some spare moments, I'll be the one thing in your head, I'm afraid I'll lose that privilege if I don't do it so. I worry about you always.

Every word was carefully thought out and my heart sank at each and every single one of them. I started sending them expecting him to respond - most people never respond to my letters -, and when he did I felt like a child waiting an eternity for a gift to come.

Pathetic. Every single word sounds so pathetically underappreciated even before you lay them on the paper, Mads. Even if you hadn't written me in months, I think I'd still think about you at least a hundred times a day, and even if you didn't call me, I would still remember your voice.

You don't have to be my stability or my savior, you'll be disappointed if you try. I need a friend right now, not one that understands - I wouldn't ask that from you -, but one that simply listens to me. A friend that I love as deep as I love you. To know you're well takes a great weight off my shoulders. Most days it is all I need.

And my mom was getting used to the letters addressed to me with a myriad of Danish stamps in colorful envelopes, and so was everyone with the fact that I needed my moment to concentrate and elaborate him a response - it was funny to see Lylia go through such long periods of time without blabbering.