DEAR LISA | JENLISA

TWENTY-FOUR

LISA

Month nine

November
***

ON A COLD, dark evening in November, Roseanne came by with a letter.

"I have a date, or I'd be more sociable," she called as Kuma whined and barked and wagged. "Bye!"

"Have fun," she said, picking up the envelope.

A date, huh? She did look really pretty, her hair shiny, red lipstick on. She knew she dated-well, Jennie used to tell her about her misadventures, and there was the pyramid scheme guy who'd come to her first, disastrous dinner party. But she'd never met her boyfriend per se. She'd just seen her a few days ago when Riley and she had come over to watch a movie, and she hadn't mentioned anyone, so maybe this was just another bad first date in the making.

Well. She had a letter from her wife to read.

She went through her pre-letter tradition-shower, clean clothes, a half glass of wine. Then she picked up the letter, holding it carefully, studying her handwriting, the fat swirl of the L, the long tail of the a.

Lisa, #9

Counting this letter, there were only a few more waiting for her. After that, she'd really be gone.

Nine months since she died. How could she have lived this long without her? It seemed like nine years, nine decades. Every memory was so precious, and yet . . . her throat tightened to think about it . . . every memory also receded further into the distance. Sometimes, she felt like she was remembering the memory, not the actual moments-remembering the times she remembered their wedding, going over every minute they'd spent together . . . well, except her last day. That one could stay suppressed for eternity as far as she was concerned.

She wanted to think of her, in real life. She wanted to hear her voice, smell her scent, not just describe it to herself. She'd watched the movies they'd taken of each other. Every one. She watched their wedding video at least a hundred times. She scrolled through thousands of their pictures on her computer.

She looked like a different person in those photos. She looked so . . . young. Even in the pictures where she had a cannula, or she was in the hospital, she looked happy, assured and in love. Dazzlingly in love, confident that she was loved back just as much.

At least she had given her that. All her love, her whole heart. She'd known such happiness, such love every damn day. And these letters reminded her of that.

With a deep breath, she opened this one reverently, slowly.

Hello, honey!

How are you? I wish I knew what time of year it was so I could give you better things to do . . . you know, like if I knew it was winter, I could say, "Make a snowman with some random children!" (Except you might get arrested on suspicion of being a pedophile, so maybe not that.) Or if I knew this month was May, I could say, "Plant a garden!" (Better! Make sure you do that in May!)

Last month's "task" was lame, and I'm sorry for that. I was trying to be well-rounded and wanted you to do something related to your career. It sounded like the advice you'd get in a fortune cookie. "Do something you're scared of." Lame, Jennie! (But if you did, I'm SO PROUD OF YOU!)

So this month's is better. But also worse. But better. You ready? You are? Good.

Kiss a woman. Not a peck on the cheek to Jisoo or my mom . . . kiss a woman not related to you by blood or marriage.