Talking With My Wife

Notes

My wife left behind piles of notes: notes to herself, written in an illegible scrawl. Lynn was a writer and these notes pertain mostly to an unfinished memoir she was working on. I didn’t expect this, but looking over the notes, I find myself feeling that there is a possibility of discovery - almost like having new conversations with her. I see my name or my daughter’s name on a page, it jumps out at me, luring me in. It’s like one of those Nickolas Cage movies where he’s figuring out a secret code that unlocks a new meaning to the Constitution. I press on, only to find myself in a thicket of scrapes and lines, curves and dots. The hand writing is so bad that I am frustrated at every turn.

I’ve kept a bunch of notebooks, but have tossed a big pile. I’m thinking the pull to ‘continue’ our conversation might not be terribly healthy, at least in this way and over the long term. So, I’ll keep a few around in case I can figure out the code to unlock her handwriting, and let my other conversations with her be in my head and heart.