Agyar

EPILOGUE

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I am not used to manual typewriters. If typing becomes a chore, I shall simply stop. In fact, I don’t know why I am doing it at all, except, now that I think of it, perhaps as a tribute to dear Jonathan. He must have spent hours up here, judging by the size of the stack of paper he left me. Perhaps I ought to read it.

It is odd that I don’t miss him more than I do. I remember how he made me feel, but it seems so far away. Everything seems so far away. I remember how frightened I was while he held me, and I remember thinking that something must be wrong because there was no pain.

There is no pain now, but nothing is wrong.

Nothing is wrong at all.

I asked Jim what it all meant, but he wouldn’t or couldn’t tell me. Jim is a dear man. I’d love to embrace him, but there is nothing to embrace. Perhaps I shall go out and enjoy the spring evening, and see if perhaps I can find someone I can embrace. Let me go back and underline that word. There. How splendid. There is something wonderfully engaging about letting one’s thoughts flow out onto the page. I used to keep a diary. I wonder why I stopped.

It seems strange that I do not feel that I will miss anyone, or, for that matter, any thing. Anything? Any thing. What a pesky language. I should learn a few others, just for contrast.

I retain fond memories of Mother, and of Dad, and my brother, and Rick and Jenny, and a few others, but the notion that I’ll not see them again doesn’t bother me; and there is nothing that I own that is worth a thought. Isn’t that odd? After all the hours I spent picking out-ah, but there’s an idea. I shall sneak back into the house, and write a note saying that I am going on a long vacation, and I’ll give all of my prints to Gillian, who was complaining about how bare her room was, now that she’s taken down those hideous things she called paintings. I’ll bet she’d like my prints. And I can ask her to send my records to Rick, and the rest they can give away as far as I’m concerned.

Jim says I should leave this town, at least for a while, because it could be a problem if I were to meet someone I know. I suppose Jim is right; he seems like a very wise man. I wish there were someone who could go with me, but maybe it is better this way. I’ve been alone before.

Where shall I go? There is a whole world, and all the time in it. I am tired of the Midwest. Perhaps I shall go to London. Or San Francisco. I’ve always wanted to see San Francisco.

But there is so much that I don’t know how to do. [know that I must bring my resting place with me, but how to arrange for it? Maybe by train? It might be that, if I read through those papers of Jonathan’s, I’ll learn something useful. If not, it will be pleasant to hear his voice again; I still have that stack of poetry he gave me. And a piece of petrified wood. At least I think I do. Where did I put those things?

My fingers are getting tired from striking these keys, so I believe I shall stop now.