September 16, 1957
The kids are back in school, Lisa.
I thought you should know.
There they were, standing in the front doorway, wrapped in thin scarves and their frosty, ghost-like breaths -- their fingers firmly gripping their worn out backpacks.
Oh Lisa, how their hopeful green eyes reminded me so much of yours.
Forever and always yours,
Mortimer
--
November 14, 1957
Goodmorning Lisa, I thought I should write to you. Ever since you left things have been hectic. The children drive me insane but they're the only thing that remind me of you. The only thing that keeps me tethered to you.
I'm a balloon, Lisa. A stringless balloon.
Forever and always yours,
Mortimer
--
December 26, 1957
Jen got six barbie dolls. Martha got four and a toy makeup set. How many do you think Bobby will destroy?
Sounds a whole lot like a math problem set. I thought you'd laugh to it. Even after you quit being a teacher you always liked arithmetic problems.
The living room smells like gingerbread and musty and spicy and sharp green scent of evergreen. The tree nearly bends in agony as it touches the ceiling. The children insisted on getting the tallest one. I wasn't ever really good at math. But these past few weeks, I know the kids nearly broke the bank. But I'm used to broken things now.
Mortimer had one heart. Lisa took one away. How many hearts did Mortimer have left?
Show your work.
Merry Christmas, Lisa.
Forever and always yours,
Mortimer
--
February 13, 1958
Dearest Lisa,
You are like the Mona Lisa. Your stare is captivating. The curve of your lip enchanting. The intensity of your gaze intriguing. What is your gaze? How can such utter wonder be described -- as indescribable as the color of the Arizona sky when it is not yet twilight but well after the glow of sunset. Green witchcraft-- that's what your eyes are.
I feel like a little schoolboy with a loveletter, Lisa. But it's not easy being alone around the time of Valentine's Day. The boys at work say that I should get another lady.
But Da Vinci painted only one Mona Lisa. And that, Lisa, is you.
You should see the shops in town, Lisa. All lined with pink and white paper and frilly hearts. All the signs brag of the best deals of chocolates for your sweetheart.
Now tell me, Lisa. What are the best deals in your town to buy chocolate for your sweetheart?
Forever and always yours,
Mortimer
--
March 5, 1958
Lisa, it's pain and agony living without you. Every day I am withering away, like a worm trapped on a sunny sidewalk after the rain.
Yesterday the girls came up to me and asked why I always wrote letters to you when I know you're never going to write back. I snapped at them. I erupted. I'm not a parent, I'm Vesuvius. They ran away into their room crying, cowering ever since.
The truth is, I don't know why I keep writing to you. I know you're not going to answer. Just, the mere chance to speak to you through these letters makes you more real, as if you didn't really leave. The thought of losing you for good makes me want to die cry.
But you don't even send back any postcards. Why don't you ever write back, Lisa?
Forever and Always yours,
Mortimer
--
April 20, 1958
It's pouring outside. The thunder keeps in time with the strumming of this broken typewriter. It's broken because the other day I launched it at the living room wall and now there's a dent in the plaster and black ink splattered like it's the scene of a grisly homicide.
There's only one ribbon of ink left and I intend to use it on you.
These are my last words to you, I guess, well, until Forever and Always.
I, Mortimer Park, have always loved you, and that will never change. The way you dog-eared the pages of your book and the the lazy way your fingers gently tugged at the lamp chain and the lights went out as you sleepily sighed goodnight. The way you said goodmorning with your dark curls sprawled out and hiding your emerald eyes. The way you kissed our children goodnight.
Hopefully someday we will meet again, but until then, I anticipate postcards of bright, picturesque landscapes and paradise basked in gold.
It's thundering harder now. I think I shall wait for it to pass before I do what I've always done every day for the past year. Get in the car, drive to St. Augustine's Cemetery, and place this letter beside the grave marked Lisa Park.
Forever and always yours,
Mortimer
