Dear Amadou, I’m Waiting for Godot


Today is a sickening day, not like any of the others this past year because I find myself haunted by your memories. It is funny how grief consoles anger and laughter hides tears.  I have stopped playing our music and drinking our fruit punch, I no longer run to our restaurant or eat our favorite ice cream. Yet I find myself obsessed with incitations to remind me of you.

I remember that day last year of dreaming that you would walk into the room, gravely sick and opaque as a ghost with the fresh wound on your chest. It was vivid then, with your khaki pants and burgundy dress shirt. I would lean over and smell your cologne as though the last love letter came in scents and images. But, today I am lost. I feel as though the scents have lost there redolence, the images run by in a fog of transparency. I spend the evenings writing of the past; waiting for Godot. I imagine that you have found him, but I am not certain- perhaps you have gone to far out in the water.

I think that you will send me a note, perhaps in a wine bottle because you know of my wishes to fly away into the unknown. I still have not found your replacement- It is sometimes obsessive the way I look, amongst men and women. There are few that understand the patience and awkwardness of living in nullity, but I’m ashamed to let go. I imagine that perhaps I too will be haunted in others memories while I search for Godot, that others will obsess over my whereabouts and left behinds. It is really a play to watch…

I forsee next year will be the same but perhaps less lucid. I plead that by then Godot will have reached paradise and maybe you will send me a postcard of your journey; that my grief will be replaced with an unfounded emotion. But today I will contemplate at bay, and watch the water turn to ice- because it is safer, and silence is pouring in.


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