The Things That Stay

Letter 3: Simon - February 8th, 1965

 

 

Though you were supposed to instigate our lovely epistolary friendship, I thought that I would play the part of the gentleman and begin it myself. I’ve done this once before—twelve years ago, I believe, so I’m just going off of prior experience. I was part of some sort of “ill child pen-pal” program one of my hospitals signed me up for, you see, and essentially what we had to do was send out a letter explaining who we are, what we’re suffering from, our hobbies, and our favourite colour. It was like some sort of creepy Alcoholics’ Anonymous initiative process, only instead of alcoholics, we were all depressed children addicted to morphine and ibuprofen. Still, in the grand tradition of pen-pals, I’ll begin my letter the only way I know how—it worked out the first time, anyhow.

First thing’s first, you already know my name—hopefully you haven’t forgotten it already—though my middle name is regrettably Aengus. Family name. My hobbies consist of reading obituaries, pissing into a hospital tube, having breath-holding contests with myself (I unfortunately always lose) and counting the cracks in the ceiling (there are exactly two-hundred and twenty-six, in case you were interested). In addition, I am suffering from acute Cystic Fibrosis of the lungs—essentially loads of rubbish clog up my airways and try to suffocate me on a daily basis, which you have already witnessed.

Last but not least, my favourite colour is brown. Not an ugly brown, more of a coffee brown. If you are considering any sort of gift for me, please know that I will also accept anything of the purple or red variety, as well. Cream is also a very agreeable colour.

Oh, and in case you were curious, I did get into a patch of trouble for breaking out of my room the other night. Woke up with a raging headache (oxygen deprivation, evidently), and got quite a telling-off by Purefoy when he saw that I had removed myself from the various wires and tubes. I told him I must have done it in my sleep, and though I don’t think he believed me, he stopped his shouting. Hard to stay mad at an angel like yours truly.

Miss Abby brought me my own copy of Dickinson poems (paid for by myself, don’t worry), though I find quite a few of them rather dull. I’ve got the good ones dog-eared, however, and next time we get a nice telephone chat going, I will read them to you and await your opinion. Miss Abby quite likes all of them and I know for a fact that she enjoys my reading far more than you would. And that’s why it drives me insane when people here are so rude to her every day—her being coloured has nothing to do with anything, so why do they have to torment her for it? It’s cruel and frustrating. If you don’t agree with me, I’m not sure if I’d be interested in sustaining contact with you. But something tells me that you’re not that kind of person.

In other news, there is not much to report, except for some old lady in the room next to me who has arthritis and this syndrome called Tourette’s. She’s usually very nice and polite until she just explodes out of nowhere and starts spewing the most fantastic vulgarities I’ve ever heard. It’s brilliant. I call her Old Faithful because she blows up every ninety-one minutes, approximately, like the geyser in Yellowstone. She’s the eighth wonder of the world, in my opinion.

Anyway, best wishes from Old Faithful and I here in the shire. Hopefully this ugly weather doesn’t flood you out. And I do hope that your book reaches you in one piece—I had Miss Abby mail it in for me yesterday, so you should receive it within the week.

Sincerely yours,

Simon (Aengus) Dalaigh