Three months ago I thought my life was over. Every day, I kept asking myself how the hell it happened, how I ended up at St. Catherine’s. What was it you always said? “When I get old, Gertie, shoot me first, and then wheel me into my room.” Something on that order.
I don’t mean to be unkind but you were the lucky one, Phyll. You went quickly. You didn’t hang around like I’m doing here. After you left, everything happened so fast. People say you never know what the future holds, what’s up ahead or just around the bend. I’ve come to despise that expression. We were happy then, weren’t we, Phyll? Insulated in our private, cozy cocoon. Only the two of us mattered.
I can write to you because—don’t laugh—you can’t talk back. You listen to me. You’re a safe place to share my thoughts. My secrets. Like you always were. That will never change. Even though you’re gone, I can feel your presence here with me. Is it your spirit?
Must close. My dinner will be here any moment.