Page 86 of The Ghost of Ellwood
Carter had called me earlier that Saturday. We’d talked on the phone and briefly visited a bit since Halloween, but it hadn’t been much. Over a week into November, and it had been too long since we’d been able to properly catch up. A lot had changed with me, and judging by the distant smiles he kept flashing, I suspected it was the same for him.
Had he seen his mystery guy again?
In the living room, I placed the box on the coffee table and opened the lid. There were stacks upon stacks of folded papers and cards.
“Sure did write a lot, didn’t he?” Carter said, sliding onto the carpet and resting his arms on the table.
“Mhm.”
My interest in Harvey’s letters had mostly faded. Now that Theo and I were together, it felt like an even bigger violation of his privacy. However, a small part of me remained curious. Theo said the last day he saw Harvey was when Lillian caught them kissing on the porch. When he returned home, that’s when it happened.
Whateveritwas; he still hadn’t told me the truth.
Theo had had a journal to help him cope with his life. What if Harvey wrote letters to do the same?
Carter grabbed a stack and flipped through it. “Looks like poems.”
“Let me see.”
He handed me one of the pieces of paper and I scanned it. Nothing stood out at first. The poem described the beauty of night and showers of sunlight. Another line about music in the dark. It was in Harvey’s handwriting, but it read like the words belonged to someone else. My suspicion was proven true when I got to the last stanza.
But all remembered beauty is no more
Than a vague prelude to the thought of you
Harvey had written the poem Theo shared with him. I looked at the next page. He’d written the same poem again, word for word. The one after it was the same.
“Do you think he liked that poem?” Carter asked, being a little smartass.
“It’s the poem they talked about before Harvey married Lillian,” I explained, still flipping through the pages. They were wrinkled and worn, and some of them were so faded I couldn’t read all of the text. But it was there, on every page. “I guess it was their goodbye in a way.”
“That’s sad.” Carter set the papers aside and popped open a can of beer. “Why do you think he wrote it so many times?”
“Maybe he didn’t know how to get his own thoughts down,” I guessed, grabbing another stack.
Minutes ticked by as we read through the assortment of cards, letters, and repeated lines. My eyes began to itch from all the dust and I tossed the stack of poems on the table after having looked through them.
This is getting us nowhere.
“Oh!” Carter jolted, almost knocking over his beer but catching it in time. He then waved something in front of my face. “Looks like he eventually learned how to write his own shit. It’s not addressed to anyone.”
I took the page from him and started reading.
Days pass, and yet, I still think of you.
Wherever you are, I wonder if you think of me too.
Days pass, and yet, you’re still gone.
I wonder if I’ll ever see you again.
Days pass, and yet, the pain won’t leave me be.
I wonder if it will always hurt this much.
Days pass, and yet, my heart refuses to beat.
I wonder if perhaps I’ve died too.
