Racheline Maltese</a>
T his morning, I wake, pooled under the mailboxes. I am as stiff and as cold ... and then I remember. As John, who is dead, and now I suppose my living up here has a new quality of drama to it.

The first time we visited Burlington, I was 20 and he was my too-old best friend in a November where I would leave behind a fiance as well as my family to pursue of a life of solitude and movie magic moments. At statements like that he would look at me and grimace, say I was being obtuse, melodramatic. He was incensed with my peculiar habit of documenting my life. We commenced a brief affair, that has, or had, wound up lasting a decade. I moved to Burlington, learned to drive as an escape attempt, and failed gratefully.

Last night, I got the call I've been practicing for since that first November drive and I still didn't know my lines. I went out to sit, by the road in front of my home, leaning against the posts, coffee in hand, trying to figure out how I've lost my voice, now that this is finally my story to tell. For ten years I have tried not to write a word. John would always say, some things are too good for other people. What John meant was that he was too good for other people, and too good for me. I see that grimace again, but this time it's mine.

First published: October 1997