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Dear Ella
Dear Ella,
Seventeen months have passed since we last saw each other. Of course, that's not counting when I ran into you at head office.
Surely you remember the day you blubbered in the foyer with a union folder clutched over your face.
What extinguished the flame? Surely you know. Either you have acquired the diagnosis the human resources shrink suggested
or you have finally given up. Speaking with you that day was like a New York City dog muzzled for his walk.
You were right to sense my disapproval. During our many years of friendship, I had always seen you as uber-strong, determined,
focused and capable. That day you were a withering hyacinth, one minute wide open with sun filled gratitude, the next a faded,
withdrawn suggestion of yesterday.
Don't know if you realize this. Last month I bumped into your Neil. His constables were pursuing the sledge hammer jewellery thief.
After a flash of six cruisers, cherries bursting importance, I was unprepared for the slam of the unmarked police car. No injuries
so flowers are unnecessary. I'm still struggling, though, not to be bitter. I'd been on route to a blind date at Stella's Café
over by Town and Bowl.
Anyway, I digress. Neil gave me a bear hug when he saw whom he'd hit! A twinge of guilt when he noted he hadn't seen me in months.
I probed his view of your condition which he brushed off as overly dramatic.
Supporting you never occurred to me. Growing up in an under-religious home, prayer is just not my thing.
Sure you were in my thoughts. But frankly Ella, how do you console someone who has gone crackers? Huh?
Time kept creeping past and now is now.
Then, wham, I felt like I was in AA. Guilt slapped me like a boxer goes for the knock out. Rekindling
what we had was as critical as tapping a cantaloupe before sliding it into a shopping cart. It's something
I just needed to do.
I miss talking about the mundane with you. As I prepped for our reunion, pleasant memories bathed me. Remember at
the cabin when you used the outdoor solar shower? You complained you ended up dirtier after the shower than prior to it.
Since then we've landscaped a stone pathway to it and fashioned a windbreak with insulated walls. I can hardly wait to
see your face when you use it.
Honestly, I must reveal this. I have always been kind of frightened by you. Not in the 'Dark Swan' kind of way.
It's your super-human ability to do so many impressive things: woman buyer of the year, inventor of the Auto-Trader magazine,
Girl Guide top leader award three years running. A woman of conviction. An altruist.
Your distaste and disapproval of me, at times, was intimidating, though. Like, when I broke up (finally, I might add)
with Tom, you pointed at me with discriminating revulsion. You never once tried to stand in my shoes.
You accused me of being phony and then subjected me to your fifteen minute 'Carlie turned lesbo' rant.
To redeem myself in your eyes, I decided to become more like you. I read and reread your university essays.
I modelled my Facebook page after yours. I laminated your recipes, traded my clothing for your style and
donated hours to the food bank. You went for French pedicures and so did I. If I couldn't have you, I'd
rather turn into you.
I declared my sexual identity as questioning. My mother pointed out to me that I seemed different somehow. As a brunette,
I had hoped to dump my awkwardness. My father reminded me that once a ginger, always a ginger. Mother burst my bubble
when she said I must be going through the change. And you, Ella, you rebuff my overtures to befriend you.
At the optometrists last week I was informed I have two significant eye conditions neither of which I understand.
I had the doc write the names on his business card so I could Google more information. One is a recurrent corneal
abrasion. Apparently I wear too much black eyeliner. And, oh yes, the more serious of the two is a stage one
cataract in my left eye. Sure makes your still-to-be-determined diagnosis minor when you realize I am going blind.
Remember the pack of envelopes you squirreled away in back of your underwear drawer--David's letters, a thin strip
of cotton bed sheet tied tightly to protect the memories of the summer of 1979 from rubbing off. In the day and age
of electronic everything, there's really nothing like receiving an old-fashioned letter. I love holding the envelope,
pristine white, the address carefully printed on lightly pencilled lines, a postage stamp licked and positioned
kitty-corner to the addressee.
By the way, Neil dropped by last Sunday. His eyes, red rimmed, his footsteps soft, deliberate, yet persuasive.
He needed to sit on the front porch with me. In his hand he clutched such a small piece of paper for the number
of words it contained. He didn't talk but rather shoved the note at me like somehow my reading it would make
the permanence of your actions disappear.
Later, Neil told me the hardest thing about letting go is what to tell the boys. They are but mere boys, Ella.
Did you ever consider that?
I tried to read between the lines of what you had written. Maybe the cataract was at play but more likely
the wind swept away the meaning you were trying for.
As much as it hurts me to state this so bluntly, I must. I cannot be you anymore Ella. Call me selfish.
I realize it's too late but I trust it makes more sense to you than it ever will to me.
Sincerely, your friend,
Carlie
Cindy Matthews: After chewing on an idea for a while, Cindy Matthews can be heard pounding the keys of her laptop.
She has been published in What If?, OPC Register, Open Magazine, Abilities, and the Waterloo Region Record.
Cindy works as a vice-principal of special education programs in Ontario, Canada.
She can be reached through her website at Cindy Matthews.
Email: Cindy Matthews
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