Since, A Novel

xv. THE POSTWOMAN

See, I do not fear the day that you'd ask me that: I fear the time that you will ask that yourself—which I'd be proud of when you do, I'll try. But out of all the few choices that we have, you'd continue living with me despite, and doubting me—my means, my judgements, your faith in me—quietly out of spite. You'd think about these things: what I am doing, what I have done, what I should have done, and if they were ever enough—I admit as I apologise: I don't ever want to know your answer to those.

I don't remember, in this life, that I ever tried to muster the courage to look you straight in the eye and claim feeling so pleased, feeling so rewarded, feeling so complacent that I have done everything I could. But looking at you now—the peace on your cheeks, sleep in your eyes, the pink and blue and yellow of you—I think and feel I was never fair with you: things I had done, not enough for you; things I had said, not enough for you to hear. Between the two of us, I think I'll always be the child: I will always be looking up to you, I will always want to know your thoughts, and listen to you say them, and watch you do them. If I ever told you this, I think you would think how foolish I am. But I want you to be the one to lead me; that the both of us would be safer had you been born first than I.

I'm not waiting for the world's forgiveness of me and neither am I of yours, but I'm waiting for you. I am ashamed of myself and I do not doubt that by the time I'm done waiting, this shame will still round me up; I will let it eat me up along with everything I wish you had the chance to know. You have given me so much—thank you, but I am sorry that you had to. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that this is all I'll have to give and tell you, for now.

June 2028. One of my former professors in college, Mrs. Sol Hidalgo, has directed a play called The Dam and it has been amazing, I must say. She's given the three of us—Yves, Jean-Marie, and I—copies of the script. Currently it is drizzling outside, and the cold pervades its way in my apartment. I keep the lights low and yellow and bearable. I couldn't turn the heater on because it has been inoperative for weeks and would filter through strange sounds, and I hadn't the time to report it to a real estate agent when I'm good with my comforters back home which I still use till now, and I'm reviewing the copies, drinking chai. The play has been held in the State Theatre near Town Hall, where you and I would always go during my free times—I know you miss the claw machines we'd see every now and then upon setting foot in the city, it would be loud, the streets would crowd with people, our faces would numb in the same cold but that wouldn't stop you from wanting ice cream in a cone, and of course I'd get you one, and I'd get you another (it was one of the times when you wanted to try a different flavour, and you'd crunch your nose the way I do—silly you—but you'd stick to strawberry anyway).

The characters of the play would remind you of the ones we'd fail to grab in those cheating, testy claw machines, and I'd tell you: "That will be all for today; please don't frown," and you'd frown anyway because you couldn't get a Pusheen, the one with a small pizza against its mouth; the big one, too big for your short, little arms. I have met great people (it is still people, even when I mean I had met two or three, right?) along the way: Yves—she's my roommate from college a couple of years ago (I think you'll love her)—and I talked recently about Mr. Morris, the feline character from the play, he was like The Baron, from The Cat Returns—one of the movies we'd watch every Thursday night, (and Friday, whenever you happened to get lucky with me) and I barely even remember it now, but you thought of The Baron funny, handsome, even.

Mr. Morris, in the play, has chided Mrs. Dahlia, another character from the play; the dam of five kittens, asking her: "I'm no father, nor am I a mother, nor do I have an own kitten to cherish and adore, but Mrs. Dahlia, I must ask you: why do you leave every so often?" there was a strain in the voice of the man that played his character, "But when you do look after them, why do you not stay longer, and leave them amongst the grass, and not tell them why when they ask—what ever is it from the outside world that seem to pull the light in your eyes, that you come back every night, and the children sleep, some of them weeping?" and the man that played Mr. Morris did a good job in portraying a disgruntled wonder; his arm rose in the air as though emotions would confess the weight of themselves better that way, while the other arm made its way to Mr. Morris' chest, dramatically disheartened.