To Walk with Dead Lions

((Based actual events, 1988) (a Very Short Story))



One hot afternoon a few miles outside of Havana they took him down from a tree he had hung himself—dead. There were smolder in the air, mixed with salty moister from the sea in the sky that had drifted swiftly in — through the city of Havana, and to the outskirts. After a while, when it got dark and the city lights went on, the hospital was notified, Dr. Dulio was notified his patient had committed suicide. He and the other doctors talked. Dr. Dulio sat on a chair. He was cool and fresh in the hot evening, he was given a letter, it was from his patient, it would read and express kind thoughts, and a ‘thank you’ for his compassion.
He was his patient for six-months. When he took the assignment (as an intern), he understood his patient had a ten-year history of mental illnesses, along with physical ailments. He prepared himself for the long term with this patient. After the patient got better, they gave him a pass to visit whomever. But when he walked down those halls he thought of his wife in his home.
Before he left the hospital, out those swinging doors into the city of Havana, he prayed. It was bright and quiet, and he hoped his wife was praying for his return, his visit likewise, but of course—things are often, too often, not the way they seem, it would be a surprise. He felt as if he was only half married—he was gone a long time—but he wanted everyone to know about it, his love for his wife, and he felt good, as if he could never lose her.
His wife wrote him letters. He sorted them by the dates and reread them over and over and straight through. He wrote back too, mostly about the hospital and his doctor friend Dulio, and how much he loved her and how it was without a solution to get along without her, and how he missed her each and every night.
After the pass was given to him, he agreed to return to the hospital on time. It was understood he would not drink, or take any mood-altering drugs, chemicals, un-prescribed, and inside his mind he told himself, he could careless, his only mission was to visit his wife.
As he walked those hot afternoon streets in Havana, to his home, what was once his home, He remembered when he had to say to his wife goodbye, they kissed and hugged good-bye! It was a very warm goodbye. Now he thought—over the top of his head—it would be the same warm and similar reunion.
He went to his house in Havana. It was a long and lonely walk, and what he would see, he was not prepared for, and there he stood outside his home, once his home, living in the sweltering heat he stood there stone-still looking at his wife embracing another man throw his big bay window.
He was almost sorry for coming home, and he knew he would almost certainly not be able to understand, and he didn’t know how to forgive her at that moment—he nearly said “What did you expect!” But of course, he didn’t say that, because it was completely, totally unexpected. He had been for a long while depressed, this was the clincher.
He loved her as always, but he realized now it was not to be return on her behalf—her love was more towards self-interest, a different kind of love than the one he had for her, offered her, which was unconditional. He told himself, what he was going to do was for the best, and he did it.


Note: 501, written: 10-26-2009 ••
Inspired by Dr. Dulio (of Huancayo, Peru)