5-year-old Savior

Dear Dead,

Eventually, we get tired of the coffee shop. I’m hungry. We walk down the street to Red Dog, where we order beer and real food. I’m surprised because we aren’t having trite conversation. I really, really like you, and I’m having a good time. I would pick you as a friend. There’s an easiness to the way we talk, like we’ve been friends since high school.

With our drinks in hand, you start to tell me about your kid, Deming. You talk a lot about Deming, in a proud way. I see you honestly beam for the first time all night. Deming sounds like a real man’s man, even if he’s only five years old. I can see him in my mind’s eye, dirty and beautiful, stomping through the forest in search of dragons and worms.

Deming came along as the product of your first and only marriage, which ended as an emotional catastrophe. Your wife broke your heart, I guess. For the second time tonight, we connect. Abortion brought us together the first time, now it’s broken dreams and bad romance. I think that’s interesting, that we connect more around painful issues than happy ones.

You take a break for a while to sip your Porter, letting me talk about my romantic catastrophes. You laugh, albeit painfully, as I describe how different girls lied to me. You cringe as I recall my girlfriends’ crazy mothers. When I get to the worst parts, you stare into the dark swirls of your Porter, and I can see the bitterness dripping off of you. It’s true – I feel bitter too. It’s pain, and we wonder if anything good can ever come from pain.

For you, I think, Deming was the good thing. For all you say about human survival, your physics degree, and your life goals, I really think that Deming is the only thing you truly love. In fact, I think he saved your life. I think you would have killed yourself without Deming.



Check out deardead.com for more.
New posts every Monday and Thursday.