The cactus she gave me was dead. Something got into the soil. Leaves just started dropping. It no longer bloomed. Wilted like lettuce, lying on its side. I’ll miss him, I wrote. I’ll miss him.

It was the last thing I packed in the van. Books, clothes, a black and white TV, various ashtrays along with plates and cocktail glasses wrapped in newspaper and boxes were carried across country on I-95 from D.C. to Montpelier, Vermont. I had no schedule. No job to go to. Just a couple of thousand and a full tank.  Everything else was hers.

Up front in the seat beside me was my prized processions. A couple of  crates filled with over two hundred jazz albums. Everything from Charlie Parker to John Coltrane. Bill Evans and McCoy Tyner. Miles Davis and Chet Baker. And a few Johnny Hartman records were along for the ride. Good company to have.

She often laughed at my selections of music. Jazz is dead, she told me. You’re the only person who listens to that stuff. My ex said. So depressing. Bill Evans. So sad. And they were all a bunch of junkies. What the hell? I brushed off her statements as a person with no soul.

So, I drove into the night. A six-pack of beer between my feet on the floor. I kept the heat off so they would stay cold. One by one, they were polished off by the time I got to Philly. I decided to drive around town. Go get some steak sandwiches at Pat’s and Gino’s across the street. Compare the two delicacies and then look for a hotel. I was tired, drunk, and my body ached. I bought another six-pack before checking in, tuned in the public radio station, and listened to Ornette Coleman. This was the shape of jazz to come. A tear ran down my face. Dead music? I whispered. Should’ve known the relationship was over when she told me that, I said. Just like the time I took her to Central Park in New York, and she said, I don’t see the big deal. Who would want to be involved with a mind like that? But she was beautiful, I cried. She was beautiful. 

The next morning, I awoke and got ready for another day’s journey. I looked inside the van while unlocking it and noticed the jazz collection was gone. The passenger door was unlocked. The albums were gone. And so was my soul. Some things wear down and die. Others are killed by man’s unkindness.

I sent her a letter. It said, someone stole my soul . Records, too. The cactus is dead. No more blooms. But like you said, maybe this is for the best. Maybe?

Goodnight, nurse.