Hi Marisol.

If you’re reading this, I am dead. Don’t cry. Don’t worry. I am happy.
I wanted to thank you. The last few years of my life have been the best I’ve ever had. Thank you for making me see things in a better way. Thank you for being so darn persistent when you wanted me to open the door and have an actual conversation. Thank you for the cookies. And thank you for making me realize how much living I still had to do.

“No,” I whisper, my eyes blurring up. “No. I . . . no. No.”
I remember when I first met you and Tommy, when he backed your trailer up your porch steps. I remember you said I was a pessimistic old grouch, but you kept visiting me and getting me to try new things. I remember that time when I taught you how to drive, and I remember when I yelled at that man who kept honking at you at the light — that was the most alive I’d felt in ages. I remember taking you out to the bakery, just like I did with Sonya.

I’m sorry for all those times I shut the door in your face, or ignored you, or criticized everything you did. I’m sorry I left you outside in the wind when you told me about moving on. I was stubborn and, well, I guess I was too caught up with myself. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my condition earlier, and I’m sorry I let my grief for Sonya keep me from being kinder to you. I know it must have it been hard for you to take it but keep being so cheerful and keep talking to me. You deserved more than my cold shoulder. I wish I realized that earlier.

I’m sorry I never told you these things when I was alive. I’m so glad I got to meet you and Tommy and the kids. You changed my life. I’m glad I was fortunate enough to go knowing I had a friend.
Thank you. For everything.

Goodbye.
I bury my face in the letter. The tears are flowing freely now, my sobs shaking my shoulders. Tommy reaches out to me, but I can’t see him, I can’t feel him, I am lost. The room spins. He can’t be dead. He was the first face I saw when Tommy and I first moved in with the kids. He helped us with so many things, lending us tools, watching the kids, even parking our car. I liked watching him shovel out his front porch and yelling at the people who parked without a permit.

And now he’s gone. Some part of me tells me to sit up, because, see, he would have gone any day now anyways, he was old, he had a good long life, he said so himself. But I can’t. I can’t let go of the fact that the first face I saw when we moved in, the first person to offer to help in his own, disgruntled way, even while scowling the whole time, is gone. Now I’ll never see one of those begrudging smiles anymore. He didn’t smile a lot, but when he did, it was like the sun after a storm.

I took them to see his grave. Abbie and Luna and even little Marco. The wind bit my cheeks and whipped my hair and howled its song and froze my tears in their ducts, but I was happy. He was always nice to Abbie and Luna, I thought, as Luna leaned her bouquet against his headstone, next to Abbie’s. But before she stepped away, she took out what I recognized was one of her figurines. She’d told me before that they’d played with it when he was watching them for the evening.

“I wan’id him da have it,” she said, head down. “It was his favorite.” Then she looked up at me, bits of snow dotting her face like freckles, and whispered solemnly, “I’ll miss my Abuelito, Mommy.”
My lip quivered at the fond nickname. I knelt on his grave, and Tommy led our kids back to the car, giving me a wide berth. I touched my forehead to his headstone and said, “You were the best neighbor I could have asked for. I’m so sorry about Sonya and your baby. I hope you get to see them again. Thank you for being so kind to us.” I drew in a ragged breath, smiling slightly as I traced a finger through the deep snow. “We miss you.”

Now, a petal falls from a bouquet, red and glistening against the snow. I catch it before it hits the ground and lay it on the grave. I stand up, dusting the snow off my knees, and close my eyes. I turn away, but before I leave the clearing, I say, “Goodbye, Otto.”
Inspired by the movie “A Man Called Otto”.