THE LAST LETTER TO BAMBI

Dear Bambi,

When You Left…….

When you left, everything came crashing down. My whole life came crashing down, I could swear the world stopped spinning for a second. (Later I would learn it never did.)

The pain was physical, it started from the back of my head, crawled to a sourness in my throat, then cracked my heart into strange, bleeding embers. I could not believe it. 

I did not cry, not at first. I lost my grip on reality and my ability to do any comprehensive thinking, all because I had lost you. All because you had left me. Again.

This time it wasn’t in the slammed door or hurried footsteps expressed through your anger. This time it was different: in my desperate attempt to hold on, you had walked away. And I knew, then, that it was for good. That hurt.

In the seasons that followed I would clutch my chest and sob when no one watched. I would lie down quietly and bury myself in your silence, replaying every fragment of  your face, your touch, your laugh, the way your brows furrowed when you didn’t understand something, of the little things: the uneasiness that passed over your face when you farted in my presence, the quick jerks of your body, your scoffs, your anger. I remembered almost everything. For years I replayed you, convincing myself that if I held the memories tight enough you would return. It was a thin thread of sanity, a far-fetched hope that kept me from breaking into pieces.

Every palm tree in July reminds me of the first time we met. You looked at me then like you could see something inside me, I hated that steady, silent scrutiny. It was intimidating. Later, when I asked why you had looked at me that way, you shrugged and said, “You are pretty.” Strange answer, as if that was enough to convince me of anything, but when you spoke that last syllable, our eyes met and held. I can’t remember who broke the contact first; I think it was me, cheeks burning, breath held, body stiffened. 

Do you recall the first time we actually met? That day I’d come with my mother to see yours; and as I waited under the lone palm tree in your courtyard I had found you. You were a jewel I didn’t know I’d find. And on the way home when my mother called your name it was like a lullaby, and I whispered it back, awash with some childish wonder.

Those were the times, the times when the world felt easy, when it didn’t make me feel suffocated. When life was fairer, just a touch of bittersweet, all because you were in it.

Now I am expected to live without you, you who once held the cord to my heart. How does that make sense?

I still remember the day you left, it still feels like yesterday,  not the memories exactly, but the way my already incomprehensible life had toppled. That morning I searched for you, looked under tables, and behind frames, as if convincing myself that your huge frame could hide there would amount to the reality I so wanted to believe. I was a wreck: a reckless disorder, and I needed you. I longed for you. Why didn’t you see that? Why didn’t you stay? Why?

The house was heavy and silent the day you left. Nobody knew where you were going; everything felt like the weight of a collapsing building.

I started writing you letters, but I stopped writing them halfway, I’d crumple the pages, and toss them aside. I couldn’t send them, not that I didn’t want to, I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know where to look for you even if I tried. 

I drowned in misery every evening, an empty bottle of alcohol lying somewhere on my rug, moaning your name as my body shook with violent sobs. It was a torment; it revealed how deep my love had been, and how unaware I had been of its true extent until you were gone.

Days rolled into weeks, weeks became months, months became years. And I invented a coping mechanism: you see I tucked you away. I threw your memories into a dark room and locked the door. I misplaced the keys halfway and never brought myself to look for them. 

One time, Mama asked if I still remembered you. Oh you should see her now, full in the right places, she looks older, a few gray streaks in her hair, softer in the face. But she seems happy, something we both hadn’t seen in her for a long time. That faithful evening I stared at her and, as I took a sip of my hot cocoa, I asked her who you were. Denial.

Years ago I realized something else, a discovery; the world did not stop when mine did. When you left. The sun still shone, brighter than before. Rains fell. People kept their rhythms. Foods tasted the same. Even the young gentleman on the 7 p.m. PMD show kept being punctual. 

Bambi, can I call you that? Life moved on, in the simplest ways, and it irked me. Even your mother remarried. Your elder sister too, there was even a little boy after you. The surreality of it was horrifying; it felt as if I was alone, trapped in a time loop, in a space where I was the only one who remembered you. But don’t get it twisted they did grieve, everyone did, deeply, but life pressed forward.

We’re all in the city now, away from that old rugged town. I heard the regional government pulled down some houses and turned the place into a developing industrial area. Isn’t that something? Yet none of us ever went back. It was as if we were all running away, from something, from your ghost perhaps. Nobody spoke of it, the town, not because they didn’t care, but because forgetting was survival. 

I wonder if you ever went back.

I still remember the day you left Bambi, on a cold August morning. The world seemed to pause, and time went fuzzy. 

Bambi, now to the question I so desire you answer; do you ever think of me? Do I cross your mind? Did you break like I did? 

Are you eating well? Are you okay? Can you hear me?

It was August 2nd,

 The day you left, the day you created a void inside of me, the day my world stopped spinning for a second.

APRIL 07, on a perfect strange morning.

(<blockquote>

<p><strong>Short excerpt:</strong> When you left, my world collapsed for a moment. I buried your memories in a locked room and learned that life, mercilessly, kept moving. Still, some things don’t change — palm trees in July, the way your name sounds like a lullaby.

</blockquote>)