The Letter
Veronica Garcia
The years seemed to have sifted through Samuel's hands like sand. He held them up occasionally in the light winnowing through the small window across the room. The rays of sunlight wafted through the gossamer sanguine curtains, almost in soft caresses, warming the room in golden crimson hues. His hands could no longer hold anything. They were too thin, like knotted twigs. He could hardly hold his chewed up pencil. He liked biting the eraser. It tasted like warm, chewed gum left in the mouth for too long. But, he didn't notice or care. He kept right on biting the bit on the eraser, nervously.
He was writing a letter to David Mallek, his father, a parish pastor down in Mendota. Actually, he hadn't seen him in a little over eight years now. Eight years. And, he had felt every second go by. No, time was one of the things that was always on his mind. Time and forgiveness. He had picked up his father's letter a few days before, but couldn't bring himself to open it till that morning.
"When I left home, I lost my faith in God," Samuel wrote, as he sat upright in bed. "Yeah, I suppose that's what you'd want me to say," he continued writing. "But, I'd be lying."
It had been too long since he last felt his mother grab him by his shoulders to hug him, with her moist hands from washing dishes. She always smelled of oranges, pine-sol or liquid soap, depending on whether she had just cleaned or stopped to eat an orange from their tree in the backyard. She always cleaned. Everything was immaculate, except for what Sam was busy making a mess of. Wherever his mother wasn't, Sam was sure to be there with all his toy cars littering the ground. But, she could never yell at him. She couldn't even bring herself to spank him when he spilled his plastic cup of cherry kool-aid on her white reclining sofa-chair. All she would ever do was kneel down to hug him and tell him that she loved him. No matter how many times he expected her to yell or spank him, she never did. He never expected her to die so soon either. His mother had passed away eleven years ago, but quite often he woke up to her speaking his name. His skin always shivered upon hearing her voice. It always managed to wake him from his nightmares and in the same manner, would lull him back to sleep. He always thought after that day, how sad it was that her voice hadn't stopped him from leaving home then.
"I left that Sunday because I felt I had lost my faith. Not in God, but in you." Sam scrawled on. He could still remember the day he had told him. Could still see his eyes close on him like a lock. See his body tense as if preparing to meet a blow to the stomach. Sam couldn't hide. His father, shocked and still, was finally seeing him for who he was: a young gay man. And, knowing this, he could not look on him again. He would not listen, as with a turned back he walked away from his son towards the pulpit.
Could he have blamed him? No, he thought. But. . .
"When you're seventeen and no one will even look you in the eye, not even your father, what else can you do? I had to go."
So he left home that Sunday, during the service. And as people walked up to receive the sacrament, he simply got up and walked away. He didn't know what he felt when he left that day. He could feel weight falling off his shoulders, but it still hadn't gone. It somehow just got redistributed. Most of the weight now lay on his chest, like big stones, making it hard to breathe. But with each step he took, it seemed to him that it was another mile to freedom and, hopefully, a different life.
"Yes, I left to find a different life. I was hoping for a better one, but all I found was exactly what I left behind," he whispered as he wrote it down.
"I guess it doesn't matter where you go. No matter where I go, all of me has to be there. And it seems everyone who finds out who I am suddenly has other things to do that take up all their time. And, they wish they could come to see me, but there's work, and appointments, and chores that need to get done around their houses. They wouldn't want to put it off any longer than they already have," he jotted as he started chewing on the eraser again.
His fingers cramped from the pressure he put against them with the hard wood pencil and his writing tablet. He could see his fingers turn white and slowly regain color against the pressure. In only six months he'd already lost half his body weight. He even wondered if he'd have the guts to send the letter this time. This time, though, he had a reason to.
His father's letter, which came a few days before, caught him by surprise. He had never expected his father to write him at all. He was coming to see him. He could only suppose that he was only coming to say what he hadn't gotten a chance to say before Sam left. The last words he remembered him mutter before the service were, " I don't even see how Christ would want someone like you." He thought it was fitting then that he left before taking communion. Lord only knows what he'd say now.
He wanted to write this letter to him before his father arrived. He didn't want to forget saying something important. Sam was becoming more forgetful these days. He thought the best way to remember was to write it down and give it to him. He continued writing some more.
"I have always wondered how you could preach forgiveness and love of neighbor to everyone, but when it came down to me, you couldn't even look at me? I suppose that in heaven, at least, you won't have to deal with me, right? Look, I know I didn't give you much warning when I told you. And, I know it hit hard. I was wrong to have left how I did. Whether you forgive me or not is beside the point. But, I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry. Not for being me, but for having left without warning," he realized as he jotted down the line.
His father walked in as he finished his last sentence. He had come in quietly and had startled his son. Sam wasn't expecting to see him so soon. He hadn't had time to cover himself well. His frail, thin legs rested on the length of the bed. He was too weak to get up. He hadn't gotten out of bed for two days now. It was a year and a half ago that he had contracted HIV, and it had hit him full force now. Samuel had written his father only a few times, but his father had never written back until now.
Looking up, Sam expected him to start an argument like he had the day he told him. They had always had arguments. The only time he couldn't remember having them was when his mother was still alive. There was something about her that made everything perfect. Sam always thought it was her voice. Her voice was strong and soft like a brook. It could soothe anything. They both had been hit hard by her death. She never told them about her brain tumor. She had thought everything was fine when the doctor told her it was benign, only to find out two weeks later that the test was wrong-it was malignant. Not wanting to worry them, she never said a word.
Sam couldn't believe that she had gone that far without telling them. His father felt betrayed that she hadn't told him. Sam supposed that was why his father always argued with him. Sam, like his mother, never talked much.
His father quietly moved to set a carved wooden box that Sam had made for him when he was a child. He could still remember all the hours he spent whittling it down to the right size and shape. He had made some notches on the sides of the box as decoration. His father's initials took him the longest to carve. But he had finally decided to place them on the front center of the box.
Purpose guided his father's hand as he took a small crystalline glass out of the box and poured wine into it. The crystalline glass seemed to catch glimmers of sunlight that shone through the wine, sweetening the wine with its golden hues. He did not want to look at his son. He had already seen him when he crossed to the table. Sam's face had lost much of its color. His fingers were bony and weak like his legs. He couldn't bear to look. Pouring out the wine was all he could do.
Then, taking a wafer from a little pocket built into the box, he approached his son. He could feel his eyes sting from the wind wafting through the curtains, carrying with it the scent of oranges. He could almost hear his name whispered in the passing breeze. Slowly, then, his head lifted to look entreatingly at his son. His eyes watered as his ragged voice whispered, "You left before taking communion. . . ."
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