by Alex Morel
I removed the note.
Dear Jane,
I’ve wanted to write to you for some time now. Thank you for sending his short, sweet note. It means the world to me. Also, I’ve had time to digest your account of your amazing story. I know my son and everything you say rings true. He was always a brave boy. As you may know, they found a book in his hand. I opened the book and realized the only thing written in it was addressed to you. I read it; I’m sure you will forgive me such a trespass. Because of its nature, and his obvious desire for you to read it, I’m returning this book to you.
Yours,
Will Hart, Sr.
I opened the box and carefully unwrapped the handkerchief, fingering the PH monogrammed in the bottom-right-hand corner of the cloth. I flipped open the cover and my fingertips traced Will’s name, carved into the leather. And then I turned over the first pages, and there on the very next page was a note scrawled in block letters, clearly written by a frozen hand.
Jane,
I’m so cold and tired and hungry. I can’t think. I’m so sorry. You’ll survive. Everything. Pills, razors, heartbreak, me, your dad, your mom, doctors, bad thoughts, this dumb fucking mountain. Don’t quit. Fight, crawl, scratch, scream, punch. Just hold on, keep breathing through it all. Walk off this mountain. Live for us. You’re strong and awesome and amazing and a million other words I can’t think of right now.
I love you.
P
I read Paul’s letter again, and even now, after dozens of times, a big fat tear wells and hovers in my eye. Then it rolls down my cheek and falls on the page, splashing the dry paper, sealing our emotions together forever.
I open my window and look up at the stars. There are millions out there shining away. I know they are not lost souls or anything like that. In the physical world, they are merely suns like our own: burning balls of fire that heat the universe. But I believe Paul is out there somewhere.
If Old Doctor asked me to explain how I survived up there, I would simply say, “With love and luck.” Where is our love now? On the pages of this book, in the crevices of my brain, in a bright star a couple billion miles away. And when I die—which I hope won’t be for a long time—that love will remain.
I close my eyes and look into the night at one of dozens of twinkling stars. I feel Paul with me, saying my name, whispering and laughing. I grip the book and lay it across my chest. I hear the trees dancing in the wind and the sound of insects calling. And we are here, Paul and me—separated but connected, brokenhearted but grateful.
I open my window to the night and let my left arm hang over the sill. A cool stream of air wafts by, and my fingertips tingle as the night breeze flows over and through them. I smile, knowing how lucky I am to be alive.