Rich Marcello
songwriter, musician, and author of five novels and a collection of poetry; his characters are often learning about love; formerly a successful technology executive; teaches creative writing at Seven Bridges’ Writer Collaborative
THE IMMPRESSIONIST
Maggie
The empty house loomed. Even my sparse studio loomed, threatening to fold in on me, urged on by another perfect Northampton morning, a morning filled with blue skies and no humidity, a cool morning, one in which we would have walked the trails behind our house, holding hands on and off, talking about nothing and everything, stopping on occasion to hint and tease at what, more often than not, would come later. I simply couldn’t walk alone. I also couldn’t work another minute on Charlie’s Moai. As I stood in front of Charlie wading off into the Atlantic, tattooed eyes looking back at me, my portentous painting appeared alive.
Why did I paint? To ward off, to contain what was on the canvas to the canvas, as if that was the only place where I still had control. But I didn’t have control; none of us do. I didn’t have to be with Charlie. I was comfortable alone, and in fact even knew the statistics projecting Charlie would one day leave this planet before me, but I wanted to be with him, wanted him to feel the same grace I did in all we had together, wanted his restlessness and its constant undercurrent to leave him, to leave us alone.
To the left of the canvas on a small table, obscured under a few tubes of paint, laid a cream-colored letter envelope with my name scrolled across it. Why had Charlie left me a letter? Hadn’t we talked things through? Yes, I was hurting, but in the end hadn’t I supported him? What else could I have done? What else could anyone have done but support their love? I shut my eyes and picked up the letter, balancing it between my hands and gauging its all-too-light weight. I raised it to my face hoping for a familiar scent, but none came. I opened the envelope, slowly pulling out the letter and unfolding it, as if I expected arsenic-laced white powder inside. Then I began to read:
Dear Maggie,
I know my decision to go to Nova Scotia alone was difficult for you. I’m truly sorry there was no other way for me. I’m not sure I can fully explain why I need to follow this path, but I am sure about a few things. I love you. I always will. My intention is to work through what’s going on with me as quickly as I can. My hope is that this restlessness deep inside of me will soon be gone, or at least on the surface where I can better deal with it. I’ve been restless now for a time, which I know you’ve sensed, and my restlessness has moved front and center this last year. Maybe it has to do with how life seems to grow smaller with time? Maybe that’s why we come to Flogo Island each year; our time there is a respite from a shrinking life. I’m not sure. I do know that I’ve lost sight of you, and I blame myself for the disappearance of Freya and others. But I also know this is about more than the goddesses, even if I can’t fully articulate what that is. Which is why I’m going to Overlamma Cove for this trip. I think the priest may help me tap into what I’ve lost so I can move forward. I wish I could tell you what will happen next, but I can’t. With that said, I am hopeful that I’ll put this behind us once and for all. Even if we move forward as something other than husband and wife, I know I need you in my life.
Love,
Charlie
from The Latecomers by Rich Marcello (Moonshine Cove Publishing, LLC)