Wright Camron - Letters For Emily

M Y BED IS FRIGID AND THE ROOM DARK. I VE PLACED many blankets on my bed, but they dont stop the cold Wasatch wind that penetrates to my bones. I stare through the window at my snow-covered plants and realize I will miss my garden. I will miss the way the carrots emerge from seeds not much bigger than dust. I will miss thinning beets in the late spring. I will miss digging for new potatoes in the fall. I will miss harvesting buckets of zucchini for unsuspecting neighbors who will then have no idea what to do with them; and I will even miss watching the plants turn brown and die each year as winter sets in.

My garden has taught me that every living thing must die. I have watched it happen now for scores of yearsI only wish I could have a few more summers in my garden with Emily.

I have other grandchildren, and I dont mean to play favorites, but the others live far away and seldom visit. Emily visits with her mother every Friday. Though our ages are more than seven decades apart, Emily and I are best friends.

My name is Harry, a laughable name for a man whos been completely bald most of his life. But, hairy or not, its my name nonetheless. It was my fathers name before me, and his fathers before him. I wish I could say it was a name I passed on to my own son. I cant. When he was born and it came time to give him a name, we chose Bob instead. He rarely visits; he never writes. Now, on occasion, I wish Id named him Harry as well.

Strangely, Im not bitter about what is happening to me. Why should I be? I am no better than anyone else. I am no wiser, no stronger, and no smarter. (Okay, I am smarter than ol man Ross who lives next door but thats beside the point.) So then, why not me?

I hope to go quickly so Ill be remembered as Grandpa Harry and not as the person Im becoming. I fear Ill be remembered as a contemptible, cranky old man and that thought sickens me. The fact is, Im losing my mind. I have Alzheimersan insidious disease that causes the nerve cells in the brain to degenerate. As it works its havoc, the brain shrinks and wastes awaydementia sets in, causing disorientation and confusion. There is no cure, no way to slow its determined progression.

This disease is a thief. It begins with short spells of forgetfulness, but before its finished, it steals everything. It takes your favorite color, the smell of your favorite food, the night of your first kiss, your love of golf. Droplets of shimmering water cleansing the earth during an invigorating spring shower simply become rain. Mammoth snowflakes blanketing the ground in white at the onset of winters first storm merely seem cold. Your heart beats, your lungs suck in air, your eyes see images, but inside you are dead. Inside your spirit is gone. I say it is an insidious disease because in the end, it steals your existenceeven your very soul. In the end I will forget Emily.

The disease is progressing, and even now people are beginning to laugh. I do not hate them for it; they laugh with good reason. I would laugh as well at the stupid things I do. Two days ago I peed in the driveway in my front yard. I had to go and at the time it seemed like a great spot. A week before, I woke up in the middle of the night, walked into the kitchen, and tried to gargle with the dishwashing liquid that is kept in the cupboard beneath the sink. I thought I was in the bathroom, and the green liquid was the same color as my mouthwash. I get nervous. I get scared, and I cry; I cry like a baby over the most ridiculous things. During my life, Ive seldom cried.

There are times when I can still think clearly, but each day I feel my good time fadingmy existence getting shorter. During my good spells, now just an hour or two a day, I sit at my desk and I write. I crouch over the keyboard on my computer and I punch the keys wildly. Its an older computer, but it serves its purpose well. Its the best gift Bob has given me in years. Its an amazing machine and every time I use it, I marvel at how it captures my words. Younger people who have grown up with computers around them dont appreciate the truly miraculous machines they are. They create magic.

Im not a good writer, but Ive loved writing stories and poems all of my life. Writing always made me feel immortalas if I were creating an extension of my life that nothing could destroy. It was exhilarating.

I no longer write for excitement. There are times when my back aches and my eyes blur, and I cant get my fingers to hit the right keys, but I continue. I write now for Emily. She is just seven years old. I doubt shell remember my face; I doubt shell remember the crooked fingers on my wrinkled hands or the age spots on my skin or my shiny, bald head. But hopefully, by some miracle, she will read my stories and my poems and shell remember my heart, and consider me as her friend. That is my deepest desire.

At times I feel bad that Im not writing to my other grandchildren, but I hardly know them. While they visit every Christmas, they dont stay long. They are courteous, but they treat me like a stranger. Its not their fault. Im not angry with them, and I hope they arent angry with me.

My worst fear is that before I finish, I will slip completely into the grasp of the terrible monster, never to return. If this happens, my prayer would be that those around me might forgetbut they will not forgetand then, worse than being forgotten, I will be remembered as a different person than I truly am. I will be despised.

I vow not to let this happen, so during my good times, I writeI write for Emily.

I F YOU LL NOTICE THE KITCHEN, M RS. H ENDRICKS, THERE S A sink in the corner below the window, as well as one on the center island. With two sinks and the double oven, this place would be fabulous for entertaining friends. She was trying not to rush the woman, but shed been with her all morning, and both time and patience were running short. Emily would never let her hear the end of it if she showed up late again.

I do like this place a lot, Laura. I just dont know, responded the plump, finicky woman. Can we run back to the one on Pierpont and compare it, one last time? It was posed as a question, but came out more like a command. Laura took a deep breath and tried not to let her frustration show.

Absolutely, but Id like to do it first thing tomorrow morning. I need to pick up my daughter from school in a few minutes, and shell skewer me if I get there late.

Tomorrow? Oh no, that wont do. I have my hair appointment in the morning, and I promised Charlie Id decide between the two today. Laura detested such clients, but forcing a smile, she reminded herself how much she wanted this commission. While her initial reaction was to tell the woman to take a flying leap off the back deck, she continued calmly. Ill tell you what, Mrs. Hendricks. Come with me to pick up Emily, my daughter, and after I drop her off to visit her grandpa, well run back up to the other house. Will that work?

Hmm, could you drop me off at the Pierpont house first? Ill just stay there and wander a bit until you can swing back and pick me up after your little errand.

It was not an errand, it was her daughter, and Laura was close to reaching her breaking point. Certainly, she blurted as she headed to the front door. Right now, dumping Cruella anywhere seemed like a great option.