That is the Question

I guess thinking so hard and so often about Ira’s mother is somehow affecting the present order of things in the universe. Either that, or she is thawing out because she called me up three days ago.

I’m not a great fan of redemption through romantic slush, so I’m more inclined to believe that I’m affecting the way she sees me, simply through my sheer force of mind. Mind over matter, in other words.

Ugh. Who am I trying to fool? I couldn’t even change her mind when I was practically begging her not to leave. What makes me think I can do it now simply by thinking about it? Wishful thinking, most likely.

Anyway, Mr. Peterson told me the first time that he convinced me to tell him more about my life, that that was something I should not have done – beg. I tried to explain that I was desperate, that I didn’t want Melinda to throw away what we had, and that I was worried about our baby (Ira, at the time yet unborn) and what was going to happen to them if she left.  He listened but he remained unmoved and just repeated what he said that I shouldn’t have begged her to stay.

Of course I asked him what he would have done, had he been in my place. Mr. Peterson said that he would have told her the reasons that she should stay, but if after everything, she still decided she wanted to go, then he would have let her do as she wished.

I told him that I could not do something like that because I loved her. In fact, even after everything, I still do.

He glanced at the ceiling, sighed and asked me how old I was. I said 29. He smiled and told me in a very gentle voice, much unlike his usual raspy drawl that I still had a long way to go.

Long way to go where, I asked?

“To asking yourself the question,” he said.

“What question?”

“Hamlet’s to be or not to be. Only, you change it to, to love or not to love. Do you know why Hamlet asked that question?”

I don’t reply and Mr. Peterson continues, “He wasn’t trying to decide whether or not to commit suicide, although that is the common interpretation. Actually, what he was trying to do was pose a rhetorical question to the audience — as in, should he continue existing or not in the same situation that gave him so much grief?”

“It’s still about contemplating suicide then. Because isn’t existing the same as living?”

“Of course not,” he simply said, staring into my eyes, and at that moment I got the point that Mr. Peterson was driving at.

If Melinda had really wanted to stay with me, she would have. Out of love. She didn’t stay and she hadn’t been trying to get in touch with me at all until three days ago, so in the span of time that she remained incommunicado, that should have already told me something.

But like the fool that I am, I didn’t understand. I didn’t thinkt that a long time ago, she could have already asked herself the question about me — to love or not to love. Hard as it is, I think I am starting to understand now, that she chose the option not to love.

And as to why she was calling up, it was basically due to practical need. Financial support for Ira? Could be. Could be.

Was I going to give it, considering she has never even let me see him, not once?

Is the Pope Catholic? Do I love going to Hong Kong or Bangkok? Will I choose vegetable salad over steak, anytime?

Is there even a question? Hahahahaha!

Note to self: self-mocking laughter can help alleviate stress most times.

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I am David Garcia and I’m thinking of: why dudes like Hamlet had to wear tight tights back in the old days and why I still miss someone who no longer cares.