Every Brilliant Thing

And a note to my wife on a train ride from Spain to Paris

I told her she should watch this thing with me. I tried to describe it… it’s about depression and this guy gets the audience to be a part of the the show and his mom kills herself and he has a list of all the important things and… I told her I was glad I watched it without her the first time because she would have only mocked me for crying.

It was mostly over but I put it on and told her to stay with me to watch the rest of it. He got the two girls to hold the electric piano. He told the story of the music and his Sam singing a song. He told the story of Sam asking him to marry her and his dad’s toast. He told the story of Sam leaving and finding her note in a record seven years later. He told the story of running out of things to put on his list. He told the story of his mom killing herself. He told the story of Sam texting him that she would be there for him and that Beyonce was related to someone I can’t remember anymore. He told the story of finally getting help. He finished the stories with number one million on his list.

I expected her to bust my balls because I had tears running down my face. I looked over and said, “go ahead…” but her eyes were blood shot and moist. “I was going to, but #1 Having a husband who feels things so deeply.”

I don’t want to forget this moment. Not ever.

I’m sitting across from you on the last leg of a whirlwind fourteen months of planning, visiting, leaving one life behind, and beginning a new one far away from where we started. Spain is rolling by and you’re sitting there frustrated by the shitty internet on this train while the group next to us talk about banal shit that will help me sleep once I get this all down.

I need you to know that through all of this adventure, you have truly been the best part. You are home to me. Which is saying a lot considering how extra I can sometimes be. You wrangled me in more times than I can remember when I felt like I was coming apart. You put up with me at my worst when you had every right to leave. The noise in your head sounds a lot like the noise in mine. I guess that makes it easier for each of us to help the other get back to good when either of us is spiraling.

I can’t wait to get home, toss our bags into our bedroom, scratch Dexter’s fluffy fur, and walk across the street to our bistro. They don’t know it’s ours yet, but it is.

I suppose we should learn French.

(I’ll add the audio tomorrow once I can get though it without crying)

This post was originally shared on my Substack on August 29.

©2024 Rudy Martinez