The Lucky One

Dear Camille,
I’ve decided to write you letters. After I’ve given you your bath and tucked you into bed, I sit down at our old writing desk and pull out a pen and some paper. I am pretending that we are young again, that you are on tour and we are separated by nothing more complicated than distance. Do remember those thinly disguised love letters we exchanged? No, no of course you don’t, you remember nothing. I don’t want to write about the dementia here, as this is my effort to escape it. But I don’t know what else to write about. When I used to write you letters that you would actually receive, I would fill them with details of my days, trying to impress you with my ability to weave glittering descriptions of my life. But that was in the past, and now, in the present, my life, our life, has lost its glitter. But it is what we have left, so I will try to tell you. Today we went to the doctors. It was just one of the many standard appointments we go to. There was no news, good or bad. As we left, the doctor smiled at me.
“She’s lucky to have you”. She said. It’s odd to hear that. It’s always been the other way around. I’ve always been the lucky one. Lucky to have you. You were always so vibrant and talented; you were a sparkling gown like the ones you always wore at concerts. I was a cotton frock, drab and ordinary in comparison. But for some unfathomable reason, you loved me and my dowdy cotton dresses. And so I was lucky. But now, apparently, you are the lucky one, lucky to have me. Or so the doctor says. The doctor is young, pretty; the kind of girl I always used to worry would steal you from me. Now of course, that kind of thing never enters my mind. You are her patient, her job; you are nothing to her but another old woman. When we first came to her, I hung on her every word, desperate for some medicine that would bring you back. Now I drift off when she speaks. All those long scientific words are useless; they can do nothing for us. And I don’t trust her. What does she know? There is so much more to us than all that science. And so I don’t believe her when she says that the dementia has robbed you of everything. I try so hard to believe that you're only locked you inside yourself, that you’re still there. When we left the sterile hospital hallways, I took your hand to help you navigate the parking lot. Your hand, like the rest of you, has become pale and wrinkled. So fragile. But then again I am no different. We are old Camille. And while it’s sad that we’ve reached the end, it’s comforting to think of all those years we had together. They were beautiful years. You don’t remember, but they were beautiful. It’s strange to think of all the memories you’ve lost. And it won’t be long before I’ll be dead. And then the world will have no record of those moments. It makes me sad, that such beauty will be forgotten, but at least it existed. Those moments happened, and that is all a moment needs, is a chance to happen. And the same is true of us. There are people who will remember us, but we too will be forgotten. I suppose I’m afraid of being forgotten. And because of this, I am left envying your talent once again. Not for the reasons I did when we were young, but because dispersed among countless homes are records of your songs. Of your voice soaring effortlessly over each note. And those records, they carry more than your voice, they are each a little piece of you. They will stay when you are gone. And I am jealous of that. I wish I had a way of leaving an imprint of myself upon the world. But enough. I am not gone yet. And despite what the doctor says, neither are you. Your music was always your key to unlocking doors you wanted to get through, and now it is my key to unlocking you. When I play your music, the songs you used to sing, those records from the peak of your career, there is a flicker of recognition in your eyes. Sometimes, you even hum along. The music is the one language you haven’t lost. Your humming is craggy sounding, from a musical standpoint it is nothing, but I have never heard anything so beautiful. To me, even your voice when it was young and strong cannot compare to the few cracking notes of today. I play those records over and over again. Hoping that the music will bring you back. That you’ll slowly remember the Italian lyrics, and then the English, and then you will be speaking to me. Back from the void of dementia. But it never works. Of course it never works. But sometimes you seem close, unbearably close. When the music plays you are a dreamer who has just woken up. You don’t remember the dream, but you seem to know there was a dream. When I look into your eyes, I can see you struggling to remember, to reach inside and pull out the dream of reality. But the barrier between sleep and wakefulness is too strong, and you remain encased in the empty nothingness that is all you have left. And I want so badly to pull you back. To give you the past so that you can give me the present. I want you here so you can give yourself to me, and once again I will be the lucky one. So when the record stops spinning, I lean forward to kiss you. Our lips, dried and thinned by all those years, touch. And I imagine that my kiss, like the music, will awaken something inside you, and that when I pull away, those old lips will become young and full, and out of them will pour those enchanting songs you used to sing.

Love forever,
Violet

Camille,
Today was a hard day. Not in a dramatic kind of way, nothing really happened. And maybe that was what made it hard, the nothingness. Going through all the tedious little steps necessary to keep the two of us alive, and realizing that these little steps are all that’s left of us. The tragedy of the ordinary, how painful tasks as simple as getting dressed can be. But I will not write about today, I am writing to get away from today. These letters will be for remembering, something I’ve been doing a lot of lately. I am remembering enough for both of us now that you no longer can. Remembering the beauty of the past so I can accept the present. Tonight, although my old eyelids are beginning to droop and sag, something they do often, there is a certain energy within me, an almost urgent feeling that makes we want to jump and run and shed the years. It is a feeling that reminds me of being young, 19 or 20, still a child, anxious to begin my life, always hurrying, despite the feeling that I had all the time in the world. It was during this time of frantic freedom that we met. That was the kind of energy that made it possible for us to grow together like we did, to make the transition between friendship and something more. Our first real date as a couple remains vividly for me after all these years. The fancy restaurant we went to and the awkwardness we felt. How acutely aware we were of the businessmen and housewives that filled the surrounding tables and the stuffy small talk we felt doubtless they were exchanging. Not knowing what else to do, we attempted to copy them. But we didn’t get past appetizers before we found we were unable to limit ourselves to meaningless conversation when we wanted so much more than words. Unable to act polite and demure when the energy inside of us demanded the chance to live. We erupted, giggling uncontrollably and drawing scandalized stares from more conventional diners. And at last you reached into your purse, slammed some money down on the table, and seized my hand, pulling me out into the darkness. The rest of that night we spent huddled against each other, indifferent to the cold as we watched our breath mingle together, laughing and kissing and feeling so very alive.

Remembering for you,
Violet