A note to myself I found folded in a book 18 months after Farzin committed suicide.
Eshgheman Farzin was not a fan of birthdays, his own or any one else’s. I always reminded him of his neice’s and three nephews’ birthdays by picking out a card, getting a book and putting money in there to find if they read to a certain page. I put the card before him, suggesting he write something, hopefully meaningful. Farzin usually suggested that sending from both of us was good enough, but my eyes told him to write something now. He hesitantly complied.
While I went all out for his birthday, he remembered mine only haphazardly. Though there was that 5th or 6th anniversary date we both forgot.
There was one time he got me a card that sent wishes to his goofy friend, I think it was a Disney card. I sat on the floor and sobbed. Farzin was bewildered and then scared, as I screamed, “…a friend, silly one at that, that’s what I am to you!!” Since I normally read every card I bought for obvious and hidden meanings special to the recipient, I was shattered, surprised and splenetic in that order. Suffice it to say that after that incident my beloved stayed away from cards for me with my general concurrence for any occasion.
It may have been a cultural matter, or a difficulty with expressing his emotions, or my own realization that Farzin did not comprehend my expectations nor think like me. Then I would get this, a simple handwritten note on a rainy morning. And my world simply shifted.
I found this note under the windshield wiper, it was raining when he left it for me.