Drafts of a rainy night

Final drafts have never been so difficult, my life has been marked by editing countless books while reading into the minds that create alternate realities, even dedicating my spare time to dream about stories of my own. Pages have always been my canvas where inspiration is never lacking, but this particular rainy night I shared alone in the office, was starting to smell like an all nighter in front of my typewriter. A simple letter kept me chained into my squeaky wooden chair lined with notions of worn out leather in the spots where my elbows met each arm and my frail body stretched across its backrest. 

A gentle notion of yellow light with soft green tones came across my antique bank lamp. I have always enjoyed the sight of its glows at night caressing the spines of the bookshelves that stand close to my desk. The sound of raindrops accompanied the slow tempo of my fingers against the keys. Just as I decided to let the rain become my metronome, words started to flow as easy as the drops against the windows. 

This letter was my last draft to say one final goodbye to this place that watched me grow until my aging process began. But this old soul needed a rest and just a couple of hours left before it was time to get home. For years I made a habit of being the last one to leave the office, making sure everything was in place, all the books were tucked to bed and taking some time to enjoy the silence in the middle of a sanctuary that had so many words to share. 

As I am no longer a young fellow, I left meticulousness behind and decided to make each letter become an honest word, a heartfelt sentence and an imperfectly perfect story that would encompass the beginning of my retirement. Final instructions of what to do in my absence to ensure everything remains up and running while I make a final pause to rest peacefully. Once I stripped myself of my strict editorial eye, the page filled itself and I was ready to go. 

Not looking back and walking in solitude was the choice that liberated me from my squeaky worn out chair. I reached for my coat, adjusted my suspenders and put on my wool flap cap. I took final steps towards the heavy entrance door, locked up its rusty keyhole and took a moment to cherish the view of my desk lamp winking goodbye through the windows. My pocket watch signaled I should speed my pace and head to the bus stop if I wanted to have a comfortable ride home.

The moon and city lights reflected across the cobblestone streets. The sound of raindrops accompanied my steps as I sat in my usual seat enjoying the view of the city, calmed in the middle of a nightly storm. My dear friend Bob smiled at me from the driver’s seat and helped me make my way to the street. He had always been generous enough to spare some time to help this tired old man off the bus, making sure my cane remained steady to accompany home.

Before saying goodbye Bob asked how come I was not carrying around my usual amount of manuscripts. It was easier to say I had accidentally left them behind before having to explain that you don’t really need paper copies when you have a meeting with death. Planned in advance, with great care, I had to attend my appointment at the time and place we set for our rendezvous. 

The recount of this story will become a small puzzle united by a letter and my voice captured by an answering machine. As I grabbed the string of the payphone booth just a few blocks away from my door, I knew no one would answer by this late night hour and that the sound of rain were stronger than my fading voice. One never stops being a father even when your kids are out of the nest and for some reason decide to fly as far away as they can, never singing back at their birth place. Speaking one last goodbye, my feelings flowed through the telephone night, asking for them to remember me and possibly forgive me for trying to reach their mom. She had left in a hurry and I couldn´t run in the same direction as her soul, at least not before my planned date with death. 

I hung up before I hanged in the middle of my bedroom. For one last time I saw Linda´s picture staring back at me from my night stand. The street lights slowly faded, the sound of raindrops stopped as I finished my drafts of a rainy night.

-Andrea Lucía @meetmywords