My Compadre

It has been too long since our last correspondence. The prevailing seconds grab my attention, blinding me to the minutes that have elapsed. The minutes, veiled by the incessant ticking and constant movement, shade the hours from the heat. The heat generated by my life spirals before me, distracting my thoughts, engaging me into movement and preoccupation. For I can count but one occupation and that is my preoccupation. Reminders flutter by but cannot flick the switch. A string on my finger will merely become frayed with age or angered by its own ineptitude. As I push on, a thought of you surely was generated. Another victim of red tape, a thought of you must have been lost in channels. I have not forgotten you my friend, I simply have not thought of you. Can it be that you exist without me in your life? I seem to believe that life becomes still until my presence replenishes the arid reserves. Drink from my self-serving trough, for I bring you the gift of life inspired, or is it the other way around.

I’ve often given thought to what others are doing at this exact point in time. A futile exercise in melodrama, I realize that I am as far from anyone’s mind as you have been from mine over the past years. Do random thoughts of “I wonder” really exist? I think not. Surely one would have generated a lead starting and finishing at my doorstep. As I stare at the phone, waiting ever patiently for someone to remind me of their existence, I can hear the mailman brag as he completes his rounds never once taking a stride in my direction. Never once giving me a glimmer of hope that out of sight isn’t always out of mind.

Why is it that those, gracious enough to return a correspondence, fail time and time again to act as initiator. Am I being selfless in rekindling the flame of relationship or am I being selfish in my disinterest for a message returned. I feel the burden of paths crossed. Paths, sewn in time, never to meet again. The list, infinitely growing, will never cease to torment me. Compadre, you are but one in a line of many. Some I’ve loved, some I’ve hated, all I’ve ignored the same.

This, my last correspondence to you, is not a justification for my inaction. This is not a plea for renewal. Rather this is to fulfill my need to close the book on my past, to cease the never-ending cycle of love and leave. Please do not return this correspondence. I do not care to hear a reply. I say this to you because I have to and I hope you can understand why.

Sincerely,

Orpheous Roy