Forgetting Sylva

Letters

Dear Sylva,

There are times when I feel like you can hear me. When I listen to your song, or when I'm just by myself. I know you're not there, that it's impossible, but sometimes you just have to hope, you know? I never told you, but I was always sceptical of there being 'something else' out there. But now I wish for it. I wish for the 'something else' to be you.

You've changed me, in that way. You've given me faith. You've given me cause to live, as well as the want to die. But you wouldn't want that. Sacrifice, in your opinion, is idiotic and far too chivalrous for your liking. I remember you telling me that, your fingers in my hair, a soft smile on your lips. And then you had to drop your arms, you had to stop touching me, because you were so tired. And I could see it. I could see it in your eyes, in the tiredness of your smile. I could feel it, no matter how stupid that sounds. I could hear the world in the wind, calling to you. And I guess you listened. I guess you answered it.

I don't really know why I'm writing this letter. Without you and Tiana, there's no one for me to talk to, really, in the way I want to talk. You and her were all I really had. And now you're both gone, in different ways, and all I have are memories. Though, at least, she's just a phone call away.

I guess I have something to tell you, though; something to thank you for.

Exactly three quarters of a year ago from today, I was sitting in the park, on the swing where we completed number two on your list. Just sitting. Remembering. I know I'll never forget that moment, that nervousness coursing through me that I did not recognise yet, that hum that was the beginning of love. That hum that grew to a whisper to a shout to a scream. Raw and real, it was what it was. I know I'll never feel it again, not like that. I hope I find something like it, though, someday. You'd want that for me, I think. You'd have smiled and told me to get out of this house I don't belong in and to find somewhere I do belong. You'd have looked at me on that swing, and you would have told me to stop being sad about something I cannot fix, and then you'd have told me to go someplace where there are people who care about me. But it ends up I didn't have to go anywhere. Because they came to me.

I was sitting on the swing, and I heard the clink of a chain, footsteps crunching on the bark. And when I looked up and to the side, I saw him, sitting there. It was strange, because I never thought he would be there. Never thought that he, of all people, would seek me out. In the tight line of his lips I saw his anger, the memory of bad words between us, screamed in the hospital hallway. But in his eyes, all there was was sadness, then. And I realised that he missed you just as much as I do. Maybe more.

There was just the two of us in the empty park. There was a flutter of wings, and we watched as two crows squabbled over a McDonalds burger wrapper. And then he spoke.

"Do you want to see a movie or something?" he asked.

I looked at him for a moment, incredulous. And then I nodded. And when he kicked at the ground and then stood, I followed him.

We still do things like that. Stupid things. I'm teaching him to drive manual. He kind of sucks at it, but he's getting better. We watch movies and listen to silence in places we remember you. Once, we went to your house. I helped him pack all of his clothes into boxes, taking everything that was his from your wardrobe one at a time, til all that remained was your clothes, things you either never had the chance to wear or outright hated, because your mother bought it for you and most of it was pink. I found my jumper, the one I leant you so long ago. I left it there, for you.

Sometimes, we talk. We share memories of you. And we talk about other things. A few days ago, I laughed for the first time in months, because of something he said, some shared experience. And he looked at me for a moment, and then he laughed, too.