My Dear Rosemary,
Six minutes before you died you asked, “Am I dying?” I was unable to answer. The tragedy of your death is that both of us knew and I know that we will never meet again.
I started this blog in 2006 and I was confused as to what it was. Through these years I have come to the conclusion that it really is an old fashioned “Dear Diary”. It is irrelevant who reads it. I only wish our daughters and granddaughters would dip into them with some frequency as so much of our history, you and me, and them is in it.
At the very least I like to explore those 52 years that you and I had together. I am able to explore because thanks to your financial acumen I have no worries. My only obligations are to feed Niño and Niña and deal with the daily menialities.
When I walk Niño, taking the route you take I can hear you telling me, “Alex, don’t shout at him when he lingers. Be patient." Because you died almost 5 years ago (9 December 2020), your voice has almost faded from my memory.
Fortunately our mutual Argentine friend, Fernando Velazco, video-taped you at the Hotel Claridge in Buenos Aires. He asked you about you in relation to me being a photographer. You have no idea what it is to see you and to hear your voice.
Because of that tape today I thought, when I put all the bed clothes to be washed what you would tell me when we got out of the bed in the morning, “Alex let’s make the bed neat for the cats.” I can now hear that in your voice in my head. Also, “Alex the kitty litter box smells. We have to change it.”
You met my abuelita before she died and you knew how she championed the words of St. Luke, “Do this in remembrance of me.” Everything I do, every day, I dedicate to your memory. I remove the little dish from the cupboard for my morning breakfast and I think that we bought the set together. I am melancholic when I take my breakfast up in the Filipino wicker tray I bought at Eaton’s. It is impossible for me not to think that we had a daily breakfast in bed for at least 25 years and that we shared the hard copy New York Times and the Vancouver Sun. I must add here, Rosemary that the Sun is thin and quite boring.
Of late when I go to sleep I am most aware of that empty spot on the bed that was yours. Niña or Niño compete as to who will lie there. My dreams often involve your presence. When I wake up they are gone and I cannot remember them.
With politics and the world order in disarray I often think what our friend Abraham Rogatnick said three months before he died, “Alex, I am not long for this world. I am glad.” I am not sure about that glad. While I am alive I can remember your presence, now an absent one, but once I am in my oblivion even that will be gone.
Rosemary, I miss you and I love everything about you. For as long as I can, I will keep our garden looking as good as I can, knowing that you would have done a better job.
I am sure, if by magic you could come back, Niño and Niña would instantly remember you. They are, every day, a connection to you. When they stare at me I always think, "They are looking at me and they are telling me that they miss you too.”
While my will to live is not all that strong, our cats, and particularly Niño who stares at me, I know he is thinking, "Alex you have to stay alive. Who would take care of us if you are gone?"
