October Tells by Heather Minette
James George died.
My mother called to tell me.
“I know he was a big part of your childhood,” she said “and I’m sorry.”
Yes. He was. When I was child, he filled big brown paper bags with pecans, fallen from the tree in his front yard, and gave them to me on my birthday. I never liked pecans, but even as a child, I always knew that giving a gift each October meant something to him. Just as it did to me.
I wasn’t sad for myself, or for James George, when my mother told me. I thought of Patty, I thought of the walks she took with her husband every morning. I thought of how it must feel, to know he’s never coming back.
I met my fiancé for lunch that afternoon. I ordered food I knew I wouldn’t eat.
He asked me what was wrong, so I began telling him what I knew. I told him that Patty sat by his side, and held his hand as his breaths became more and more shallow. I felt tears rushing to my eyes.
“I’m going to cry” I said. I hadn’t cried yet. And I needed to.
“No, don’t cry” he responded, looking over his shoulder and around the restaurant.
I blinked away my tears. I listened to him talk. Maybe it was about work. I don’t know. I just nodded my head mechanically, wondering who Patty would walk with in the morning.
I never married my fiancé.
And I never had an answer good enough for him, or for me.
It was that gap between feelings and language that I was never able to fill.
But this morning, I have an answer as clear as the October sky.
The pecans are falling from James George’s tree, now.
Two old lovers are holding hands in a plaza somewhere.
And Patty walks alone.
Dear Man I Never Married,
You should have let me cry.
Heather Minette is an artist and writer. The world is her muse. Real life is her story. She is 25 and lives in Houston, but spends most of her time traveling with her son.
My mother called to tell me.
“I know he was a big part of your childhood,” she said “and I’m sorry.”
Yes. He was. When I was child, he filled big brown paper bags with pecans, fallen from the tree in his front yard, and gave them to me on my birthday. I never liked pecans, but even as a child, I always knew that giving a gift each October meant something to him. Just as it did to me.
I wasn’t sad for myself, or for James George, when my mother told me. I thought of Patty, I thought of the walks she took with her husband every morning. I thought of how it must feel, to know he’s never coming back.
I met my fiancé for lunch that afternoon. I ordered food I knew I wouldn’t eat.
He asked me what was wrong, so I began telling him what I knew. I told him that Patty sat by his side, and held his hand as his breaths became more and more shallow. I felt tears rushing to my eyes.
“I’m going to cry” I said. I hadn’t cried yet. And I needed to.
“No, don’t cry” he responded, looking over his shoulder and around the restaurant.
I blinked away my tears. I listened to him talk. Maybe it was about work. I don’t know. I just nodded my head mechanically, wondering who Patty would walk with in the morning.
I never married my fiancé.
And I never had an answer good enough for him, or for me.
It was that gap between feelings and language that I was never able to fill.
But this morning, I have an answer as clear as the October sky.
The pecans are falling from James George’s tree, now.
Two old lovers are holding hands in a plaza somewhere.
And Patty walks alone.
Dear Man I Never Married,
You should have let me cry.
Heather Minette is an artist and writer. The world is her muse. Real life is her story. She is 25 and lives in Houston, but spends most of her time traveling with her son.