Letters

The fan creaks as it spins slowly, casting shadows throughout the room. Yellow light shines through the window, brightening the room with a soft warm glow. I lean back into the warn seat, covering myself with my mother's handmade blanket, the scratchy material worn soft with time.

I remember the days when she was here, a guiding light for the young child I was. I remember making this blanket with her, her callused hands guiding my small ones as we looped the yarn around and around, building up the colour of the mint green yarn I had chosen.

She taught me everything I know about kindness, how to be kind, how to care, how to tell what others need, but she went too soon, the only connection I knew extinguished suddenly before I was even old enough to understand that people eventually leave this world. But I'm not that child anymore, I'm old enough to understand the idea of death, and I know my time is coming too.

It has become harder to breathe. It happened slowly, occasional gasps here and there, but now my breaths are long and shaky. My hands don’t work like they used to, my fingers tremble, needles tapping together uncontrollably as I try and try to loop the yarn, a once natural reflex now a struggle. Each time I close my eyes, the feeling lingers that they may never open again.

The coughing began a few days ago. Rising from bed and losing my breath in a coughing fit. The pile of tissues next to me are stained red. It was a sign that I would not be around much longer, coughing up blood.

I was alone in my house, having never started a family. After my mother left I never truly recovered, could never form true connections. People would be in my life but they never stuck, only temporary conditions of life. I did care about some of those people from my past, but I had no struggle letting them go when they inevitably drifted away.

There was a man once, I met him in one of my university classes, smart and charming and funny. We would spend a lot of time together, going to the movies, skating at the park, staying up late at night studying for futures we wanted to have with each other. It started as a friendship, but it had begun to expand, I thought of him in a different way, someone I thought I could spend the rest of my life with, raise children together with, passing away peacefully side by side… but he left too, just as suddenly as my mother, my memory of him is now accompanied by the sound of tires and alarm.

Even with the heartbreak, I thought of my life as good. Graduating and moving on to teaching, helping the kids along each struggle and hardship, flowing with patience and kindness. Maybe some part of that was a deep longing for children of my own, a feeling that I transferred to them as a way to cope, but I will never know.

I cared for all of them, no matter who they were, no matter how they acted. I knew they cared about me too, my walls are lined with gifted trinkets from them, a beautiful tapestry that built over the years, each with a different meaning from a different student.

A small trophy with a little banner that read 'World's Best Teacher' that reflected the warm light entering through the window, a gift from a young boy I had helped during a panic attack. A small clay teddy bear handmade for me by a girl, thankful when I gave her advice for her stressful family life. A beautiful porcelain vase, painted blue and white and gold, gifted by one of the classes I taught many years ago, I still remember the day. They pooled their change for weeks to purchase it and the flowers it once held, orchids in many shades of purple, explaining the range of purple represented the different ways they appreciated me.

I worked for years, enjoying each and every one of them before settling into a peaceful retirement. I still get letters from my past students, about how well they're doing and how they still follow my teachings, they send me photos of work events and their kids, they keep me involved with their lives just like they used to, even after all this time.

My body feels heavy, they always said you'd know when it would happen, your spirit starting to leave your body and move on to a greater place. It would be an adventure, exploring the place beyond life itself, a trip I was ready to leave for.

The clock on the wall ticked slowly, a countdown for my final breath. I put my knitting down, a project I would never have the time to complete, and lift my phone from where it lay. I never truly discovered how to use it, but I had made sure to learn what I needed to. I open the app and press play, and the melody of 'Tiny Dancer' echoes from the small speakers.

The music flowed throughout the room, throughout me, relieving me of any thoughts but bliss. I let myself be captured by the chorus, no worries or stress, the way I wanted to go. I lay back, nestled in the worn blanket that held so many memories.

I feel my eyelids falling, and I know deep within my heart that this is the end. I take a deep breath, and I feel myself smile as I let my eyes close for the final time.

The music continues playing, the clock continues ticking, the fan continues spinning. Music stays echoing until the song ends and the next one plays. The light fades as the sun sets, the tiny trophy ceases reflecting it. Sounds fade as the phone dies, the fan creaks slowly as time ticks away.

The sun rises and sets again, the fan powers down, the spinning stops. The clock dies, the ticking halts as time continues on, and the letters pile up in the mailbox… the letters are still coming, even after all this time.