Three Apples: An Open Letter to Him
BY PAUL CHADERJIAN It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. This wasn’t how it was scripted. < #inhale > I don’t know where you are and what you’re doing, but I imagine you two floating in slow motion in the middle of a vast, serene, white place full of clouds, hearing echoes of conversations from the wretched world far below. Here, we are chattering simultaneously, posting, blogging, liking your photos, and it’s all reverberating through you and in you, even though it’s all meaningless, circular, and empty noise that mortals, like the ones you left behind, consider dialogue. Our voices in this loud place run together, separate, sound foreign, fake, but they continue to sound. Perhaps there is music in your new place, in the background, a harp lessening your harsh transitions from the here and now to there, the eternal. Here, we wish the clocks could turn back to a simpler time before Friday, to a time when you hadn’t died, hadn’t succumbed to fat...