A Letter, Three Years Later

Emmie,

You loved your picturesque gardens, didn’t you?

That night, we were barefoot, it was August, and it was twilight. The air was still warm but it was late enough that the grass was cold. I could feel the beginnings of mosquito bites on my calves, ones that would really balloon tomorrow. The citronella from the candles hung in the air, not doing much to protect me but at least it matched your dress. You loved your lemon dress so much, I remember.

Did I buy it for you? All the lemon-themed gifts blur together, if I’m gonna be honest. Valentine’s day, your birthday, Easter with your family… Every holiday you tore open wrapping paper and feigned surprise to see those lemons on a shirt, or a skirt, or socks, or flip flops… after all these years, every time I see yellow I think of you.

That night, we were drinking Arnold Palmers from Mason jars. I was making fun of you because you never could pronounce Arnold Palmer correctly. Ever. At every restaurant, it was always “Arnol Polymer” or some shit like that. It was adorable. Every time, I told you, “Please, for the love of God, just say half-unsweet tea, half-lemonade,” but you never listened.

That night, the incandescent light bulbs you hung in your backyard were reflected in your glasses. Wire filaments, wire rims. Everyone else these days uses LEDs, but you never could abandon your precious aesthetics, could you? It was worth the fire hazard, worth the wasted wattage in your eyes. The same eyes reflecting back the hot yellow light.

That night, I knew I wasn’t going to reenter the screened-in porch. That’s where the rest of the couples were, mingling over Rosé cider from local breweries and your mother’s lemonade. This was the night, the night to end all nights, and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to look any of those guys in the eye. Not for two weeks at least.

That night, I took your hand. Mine was slightly sweaty, with the same lumpy knuckles I’ve always had and always been a little embarrassed of. Your hands, of course, were perfectly manicured with an average of two rings on each finger… one with a yellow stone, one with green, one that was wrought to look like a leaf. It wasn’t until I took one of them off for the first time that I learned they turn your fingers green. When I asked why, you said it was because you like to pretend to save money.

That night, I reminded you of the first night. The night where there were no lemon dresses yet, no grass-green fingers or soles of our feet, when I didn’t know the grit of your mother’s lemonade yet. The night where there was fluorescent lighting, frigid A/C, and burnt microwave popcorn.

You remembered then. I wonder if you remember now. You probably have no choice.

That night, in your backyard, you dropped your Mason jar when I told you. In the movies, it would have been secretly made out of sugar glass, and it would have shattered in a huge impact across a mahogany floor. But this was not a movie, it was just me picking the novelty of a frequent flier club over you, so the jar only made a soft thud when it hit the mosquito-ridden grass.

It was dark before your tears stopped. The air was fully cold, no longer balmy, and I had no blanket to offer you. Your mother was awful at preparing for nighttime garden parties. I’m not sure if you would have accepted a blanket from me at that point anyway.

Well? Are you waiting for the shoe to drop? For me to address the big, wrinkly, geriatric elephant in the letter?

You never tried, Emmie. Never tried to offer to follow me, to stay in touch, to send me care packages of something I loved like I would do with your lemons.

You and your lemons.

No, you just let the mosquitoes soak up your spilled drink on that August night.

What a waste of a perfectly good Arnol Polymer.

Best,

Nate