Love is a Four-Word Letter

You are my sunrise.

I'm lost without you.

My world, my life.

You and me, always.

Alexandra wiped her tears and placed the notes back in the shoebox from which she'd removed them. There had to be hundreds of them; these reminders of how much he'd cared for her.

"Love isn't a four-letter word, it's a four-word letter," he'd said to her once. "Love was overrated."  He didn’t' mean the notion of love, mind you, but the word itself. It was far too easy to simply tell someone that you loved them.  Far too… conventional. In the time they were together he uttered the words "I love you" three times: The first time they expressed their feelings for one another; their wedding day; and the day he died.

Each and every other time, he did so with a four word letter. "Words are powerful. Love is more so. How can we be limited to one particular word or phrase to express how we feel?" And thus it began; sometimes he'd leave a note on the nightstand when he went to work. Other times it would be folded neatly on top of the coffee maker, tucked in her jacket pocket, or on her pillow at time.  They weren't all expressions of emotion, either. She knew he loved her even with the simplest of gestures.

Make Monday your bitch!

Fish tacos on Thursday.

I forget my pants.

Little things. Silly things. Anything to make her smile, laugh, or let her know that he was thinking about her. Four words was all it took. Four words.

She remembered the day it all changed, when the words became painful. When they became the only way he could communicate his pain because uttering the words out loud pained him all the more. He hadn't told her about the first appointment, or the follow up, until one evening when they sat down for dinner. He'd cooked, as usual, and she looked forward to an evening of wining and dining in, snuggling on the couch and watching a movie. Her note awaited her in the center of her plate and she beamed. As she always did if he was present when she found it, Alexandra picked up his letter and grinned at him before reading; her grin disappeared when she looked up and saw tears streaming down his face. Then she realized there were two notes folded together.

Went to the doctor, the first one read.

It's cancer. Six months.

Anger came first; then the fear, then more anger. Test after test, treatment after treatment, and the days rolled away like the tide.

It hurts more today.

This really fucking sucks.

There were days like that, but there were times when the spark of his true self still peeked through.

I miss my hair.

You're still my heart.

Show me your boobs.

Even in his pain he still tried to make her smile and remind her that, despite what was happening to him, it didn't alter the love he felt for her. She was in pain, too, and knowing that she ached destroyed him far more than the cancer ever would.

Don't stay for this.

"Say that again and I'll kill you myself," she said between pained tears in response. The last few days were as horrible as she could ever imagine them to be. Family came, family cried. He made his peace with God, and with himself. The notes began to taper off, but still he thought of her.

I didn't deserve you.  

You are my heaven.

Even sad, you're beautiful.

And then he said it, for the third and last time, on the one hundred and seventy-eight day. He looked up into her eyes, raised a weak hand to her cheek, and whispered with strained breath "I love you."

Alexandra had saved every single note, even the painful ones. They were him.  They were them. They were her. Someday, she supposed, the hurt would pass and she'd move on. But not yet. Even a year later, she still closed her eyes and saw his face, his smile. She heard his voice in her ears and remembered the flush of his cheeks each time she looked to him after reading one of his four-word love letters.

Of course she still felt the pain of loss, but reading the letters reminded her too, of the fact that true love was possible. The letters meant that there was something more to their existence than emotionless doldrums. There was something vivid, invigorating, and worthwhile. He was gone; that she could not change. What he left behind though, would live on in her forever. Love did exist. He'd proved it, time and again, four words at a time. And it gave her hope, not just for her future, but for all; if he could prove that love existed, that it mattered, without saying the word, then yes, there was hope. That made her smile; and once again four words enveloped her in an aura of emotion. She'd survive, without him. If what he'd shown her, taught her, meant anything, she'd endure, and flourish. It was what he always wanted for her, and it was his sunlight in which she'd grow.

Yes, there was hope.

 

© 2016 J.J. Goodman. Al rights reserved.