258/365 – THE LETTER OF GOODBYE

Word Count: 471

He delayed his suicide until his goodbye note was read and rewritten a hundred times, tweaked as only a writer could worry words.

Carlson Porter had had enough of life. Three wives and seven children and several Pushcart nominations that meant nothing at all to anyone but him. He had written literally hundreds of stories and published a good percentage of them, some in the last remnants of print literary journals. He had even won a cash prize a couple of times. He thought he’d feel a great sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. He did, but it was elusive and illusional. Transitory. Transient. The high would last a day or two at most.

The world of writing had always been hard but it seemed to Carlson that if a century ago writers could make a living at their craft without resorting to the photography equivalent of doing weddings, then why not now? He’d even considered writing term papers for lazy college students with too much money and too little time. Instead, he made his income as an accountant. A damn good accountant supporting two ex-wives, a current, and seven children. He felt hollow as a reed.

It built up over the last few years to a point where now he sat, fingers poised at a keyboard, editing his final story. And still, something didn’t flow quite right. He sought the poetics without the drama. The narrative of a life as it enters the tunnel and looks behind to notice that the lights are flickering out.

Carlson worked on it for a few more days. Then, as if to hover above the “Submit” button, he printed it out and signed his name. The rest, the details, the act itself, took little time at all.

His widow and his ex-widows (Carlson’s word, established in a fit of inspiration) sobbed appropriate to their status of years spent married to him. The children bravely held back tears upon the sight of him laying quiet and still, the younger ones squinting to convince themselves a body doesn’t breath. All sat solemn for the requested hour and then snuck outside to smoke (the older ones) or play a game of tag in the parking lot out back.

Carlson’s letter was read quickly once by his present wife the day she found him hanging from the overhead brackets in the garage. Now she showed it to the others.

His first wife and childhood sweetheart noted her surprise that Carlson wrote so well. She’d never known.

His second wife held the letter a long sad time and yet smiled secretly that she’d been so fondly remembered. She knew exactly what he’d meant.

His third and final wife, upon reading the letter more carefully this time, shook her head in exasperation as she noted the misspelling of “farwell.”