I’ve visited
her house every day since the cancer spread and she passed. I drive the short ride to her front lawn
whenever I can, yet it always seems so hard stepping out onto the lawn, where
we used to pass the soccer ball on Saturday afternoons. My legs felt like
steel, I couldn’t move them. It was almost a sign as if I’m not welcomed to
where the most amazing girl used to spend her days. As a result, I’d sit in my
car, sometimes smiling, thinking about all the memories etched into my brain.
Other times, I just cried because I knew we would never be able to have
anymore. On the rare occasion when I couldn’t
bring myself to either one, I prayed. I
prayed that one day I’d have the strength to walk up to her front porch, ring
the doorbell, and tell her parents how much she meant to me and so many
others. Her family grew to be my
favorite people in the world and I haven’t spoken to them since she died. It
seemed so wrong, so unreal. It seemed as if she was still sitting in her room,
talking to me on the phone or daydreaming about our future. At least, that’s all I ever did. Unfortunately, she is gone and there is no
way to bring her back. I know I won’t
ever get closure until I step foot into that house again.
As I
park my beat up old truck that was the one thing I loved almost as much as I loved
her, I glanced up to where her window is.
It’s the middle of autumn here in our small little town. The crinkly leaves covered her front porch
and driveway. The lawn was overgrown and
weeds have since came and gone when it got chillier. The cozy white house’s
paint was chipping, mailbox was rotted out, and the rocking chairs on the front
porch had been knocked over from a storm a few nights before. The old townhouse that used to be beautiful
and well-kept seemed to have lost its curb appeal.
I
watched as the orange and yellow leaves swept across my vision. Something seemed different about today. I didn’t feel like smiling, or crying, or
praying. All I wanted to do was knock on
the door, so I did. For the first time
in 4 months after coming here every day, I opened up my truck’s door and
started towards the house. As I reached the porch, I noticed something I never
saw before. It was a letter, from her,
from the girl I was in love with. On the
envelope, I saw a post-it note with her mother’s handwriting. It was dated for
almost 4 months before. The note said:
Dear Anthony,
We have noticed you outside the
house and every day we have been praying you would come inside so we could give
you this letter Brooke wrote for you. So we left it here for when you built up
the strength to come inside. Please just
walk in, Brooke would want you to read it in her bedroom, with all of her
belongings and memories the two of you had. You’ll always be like a second son
to us.
Much love,
Angela
I felt a tear stream down my
face. But I knew today was the day I would
visit Brooke’s room for the first time.
I turned the doorknob of her house slowly making sure not to alarm her
parents if they were home. The door
squeaked a bit, but then the house went back to complete silence. The house seemed messier than usual, but it
didn’t really bother me. I walked up the
creaky wooden stairs up to Brooke’s bedroom.
I couldn’t believe it, nothing in her bedroom had been touched. Her photos of me and her, and of her and her
best friends were still surrounding her vanity mirror. Her clothes were still sprawled out on the
floor. What I noticed that hit me the hardest though, is that her bed was
unmade and it still looked like it had been slept in recently, even though it hadn’t. Her pillow still had an ovular dent in it
from her head sleeping in it five months ago.
The memories from all the years hit me like a truck. I couldn’t help but fall to the ground in
agony. Something weird happened though,
I felt like crying but no tears fell. No torturous desperate bursts of air were
needed. I actually felt peaceful. I felt
like she was here with me. In the five months of loneliness, I had never been
able to feel her presence until now.
I stood up from the floor and made
my way towards the vintage old desk that she bought at an antique shop one day
two summers ago. I sat in the oak chair
that had all the signatures from anybody who sat in it. I never understood why she had people write
on her furniture, it was always a mystery.
Then again, so was she.
I opened the envelope and began to
read. I was expecting a long heartfelt
letter, but that didn’t describe this letter at all. Even so, it was probably the most meaningful
thing I've ever read. It read:
Anthony,
I will always love you, even at
heavens gates. I’ll see you soon.
Love,
Brooke
No comments:
Post a Comment