In the Distance, Oblivious

Did you make a bargain? Did you trade quantity of days for quality of days perhaps?

Ingrid, I’ve always been amazed at how quietly (and seemingly?) peacefully you left. I’ve always wondered: Were you were able to talk your cancer into some small compromise? Did it listen? Was it interested? How did you convince it to let you leave so gracefully?

And what it say to you, during those painful afternoons when you both knew that it was winning? I would have guessed it incapable of anything but cruelty, but maybe there was a hint of sympathy in its voice?

You’re right, of course. I fucked up, and I know it.

In her head, she’s started the letter at least a dozen times.

And I guess what you’ve always said is true. I’m not very good at understanding other people’s feelings.

In each version, her wording changes slightly, becoming a little more helpless. A little more hopeless.

As I struggle to understand, the bigger question then becomes: Why I haven’t been able to admit any of this? To you, obviously, or even to myself? Where would I be now if I could have just admitted it?

But then… when it comes time to put pen to paper… pride and stubbornness again take over.

The more time passes, the more I see just how much I lost.

The letter will never be written. Much less sent.

I’m taking photographs of an Indiana cornfield, with a little shed nestled back against some woods.

I’m taking photographs of the way light surrenders to the inevitability of November.

I’m taking photographs of how, nine times out of ten, people get exactly what they expect.

I’m taking photographs of the time and place I want to be kissing your shoulder blade.

I’m taking photographs of the vast indignity of wanting all the wrong things.