Letters to David

Letter 1:
My dear David, how I miss you so.

We were in elementary school, and you were the clown. With the cute smile and the dark hair - and those freckles! Funny - a comedian! I fell in love with you the first time you made me laugh.

Remember when we were just kids, and you gave me that ring? It was one of those little metal rings that you could squeeze tight in the back, like the ones we used to get in bubble gum machines. It was the prettiest gift to me. I kept it for years.

And the time we were in middle school, and you intentionally got thrown out of class so you could clown around in the halls and make me laugh? You threw a super ball through the transom windows into the classroom. That ball bounced and bounced and finally hit the front of the teacher's metal desk with a loud boom! We kids fell into the floor laughing. The teacher lost all control. You were expelled for three days.

We were in high school, and you let me drive your big brother's BMW motorcycle from your house to mine. I made it to my house, but didn't know about the kick stand, so I laid your brother's BMW motorcycle down on the ground. You were mad with me, and made me cry, and then you hugged me and made me laugh. Again, we laughed.

We were 35 when you came to visit my husband and me in Norfolk. You were in the Marines, a tennis player for the Marines, you said. So tall, so handsome, no freckles I remember. But so funny, so warm and inviting, so open, and so David. I do remember that you made a remark about my added weight - the weight I added with my first child. I was scolded, I felt. I remember that.

My husband has never been jealous of you. He knew where you were held in my heart.

Oh, David, I've loved you always - in the same sense now as I did when we were five, and ten, and then 15, 25, and 35.

That I didn't know of your death for a year was crushing. No one from our home town thought to get in touch with me. Somehow I feel the need to apologize to you for not being there when you were in despair. Did you need me when you died?

And all the while - and even when you were dead - you were never far from my mind, and I kept thinking, "Oh, I need to get in touch with David. I'll do it tomorrow."

That was 15 years ago, and today I look for you everywhere. Any tall man who passes me, I inspect. Is that you? The tall male shopper in the grocery store. The tall clerk at the post office. The tall business man in the board meeting. The tall homeless guy.

I'm looking for you, David. I seem to need you. Why?

Funny, I'd take you into my arms whether you were the board member or the homeless guy. I miss you that much, and love you that much more for it.

Just think: If we were together today, we'd laugh and talk about the old days. You'd be my clown - again and again and again. And I'd laugh until the tears rolled down my cheeks and my stomach hurt. Just like in grade school.

I'm older now. No longer the 16-year old high school kid, nor the new mother with a few extra pounds. There is grey in my hair and lines around my eyes and mouth. Many of those laughing lines you gave me, I must add.

But my mind and body are as young now as they were when you and I kicked the can in the neighborhood streets on a warm night in Georgia. And I'm still a kid at heart and love to laugh.

I miss you so, David. Where are you?

*******

Letter 2:
Dear David,

Today, I was standing in the check-out lane at the grocery store, and a very tall man caught my eye. He was banking at the little bank kiosk across the store from the check-out lanes.

His back was turned toward me. He was tall - as tall as you. I admired his clothes: long-sleeve hunter's khaki shirt. Tucked into jeans with a leather braided belt. Brown penny loafers, just like you wore. Remember the two pennies I put in your loafers, to remember me by?

I was mesmerized by this man. He looked so much like you would today. I'm afraid I kept looking at him much too long.

The man finished his banking and I checked out at the same time, and we walked out of the grocery store together.

When the man got to the curb outside the store, he abruptly turned to me and said:

"Do I know you? You look familiar?" The man cocked his head to one side, just like you used to do.

David, his eyes were the same blue as yours. I was stunned, and could only look at his beautiful blue eyes and that face...your face?

A taxi pulled up for him, and again he spoke to me:

"I saw you watching me. I think you're cute. And I know you like me." He laughed, quite sure of himself. Cocky, just like you. I was at a complete loss for words, I admit. To be confronted by him - you - him.

He told me he was in town for the weekend, and asked if I wanted to join him.

I thought quickly to myself, "It's Friday...why not?...but it's midday and I've got to get back to the office...and besides, do I know this man?"

I shook my head to say "no." He nodded and slipped into the taxi, and the taxi drove off.

Leaving me standing on the curb thinking, "What does it matter if I know this man or not? Really, what if it is David? And so what if it's not?"

People passed me. I was in the way of the heavy grocery carts. I didn't budge. I looked down at the pavement and wondered how I could have let you go - when I'd been looking for you for so long.

When the mind is hungry, the mind plays dangerous games.

I miss you.

*******

Letter 3:
David:

The homeless guy, he's tall - as tall as you, and lean - as lean as you. Is that you, David?

He has blue eyes, I know, because when he avoided my gaze I saw his eyes when the sunlight sparkled. They're your eyes, David. And he has the agility of the tennis player that you were.

This guy, he walks the streets of Buckhead. I see him always. I know him. I know him.

I was the girl at Starbucks who gave him - you - the cup of coffee. I was brave and stared into his - your - eyes. I looked into his - your -face. I want to know this person, this man, because I think he is you.

Then, the other day the most bizarre thing happened. I was at a party and a man at the party was entertaining the group of party goers with his stories of mercenaries in Colombia. The name "David" and your last name were mentioned.

How was I not to respond, David?

I took him to the side, and asked him quite frankly exactly if he was talking about you. He was.

David, what have you gotten yourself into? I knew you were in the Marines, but I had no idea any other work you were doing.

Why would this information about you cross my path at a party so many miles - and so many years - away? What have you done?

And now I wonder: Was your car accident on that deserted road an accident, David, or were you taken care of - after you'd done your job?

Why didn't you tell me? Of course I know the answer: Because you couldn't.

What other secrets do you hold, David?

Who are you, the homeless man who once was the long,lean tennis player, or indeed the mercenary found in the crumbled Porsche smashed into the hillside on that deserted road?

I need to know. I am haunted.

David, please.

I wait for some answer from you.

-----------

Letter 4:
My Dearest David,

The other day while watching my nephew play baseball, I remembered the day when we older teenagers got together for a softball game. You know the co-ed softball game with all the beer?

And you drove onto the field in your convertible Porche. You jumped out of the car - so agile you were with your long legs - and you ran along side the car while it motored ahead on its own, and then you jumped in again - not missing a beat, drove the Porche to a parking spot, stopped and got out like nothing at all unusual had happened..

The group of us rolled in the dust of the baseball field, out of our minds with laughter. That you would attempt such a feat was mind-blowing. But, of course, that was your nature - to catch us off guard.

What other clown could have survived that stunt? Only you.

Why didn't you survive that car crash, then, David? Why?

Missing you,
Me

--------
Letter 5
Dear David,

I haven't been able to sleep recently, so haunted by your memory as I am.

So the other day, I made a pilgrimage to our hometown, and I drove through our old neighborhood - with my daughter in tow. I admit I'd taken this drive before - past your house, but this particular trip your parents were home.

Your father - he's so tall and lean, just like you. He wondered who I was. I introduced myself and my daughter, and he took me into your house. Your mother was in the kitchen. Her face so familiar to me, such a warm, inviting face. So forgiving. So wise - and so tormented beneath it all.

We chatted in the kitchen, and talked about you. We laughed. I will tell you also that we cried.

I guess to break the mood, your father shuffled up next to me in that agile way that was yours, and said something extremely funny. I looked at him and saw you. He was being the clown that you were. So young. So spry. You were there with us, weren't you?

Later that day, I drove to the cemetary where you are buried. I was frustrated trying to find you, David, but once I discovered your site on the side of the hill, I felt as if I were coming home.

Amidst the artificial flowers and tacky memorabilia on the graves stood a lone plot, marked by many little American flags. There you were, David. You were there for me.

I knelt down and touched you. Did you feel me? I put my cheek on your grave. And I cried.

I'd not cried for your death until then. I exhausted myself that day, letting out the grief that had welled up inside me for so many years. If only I could have hugged you - just once more.

If you saw the blades of grass matted to my wet cheek when I finally picked myself up from the grass that was you, I don't mind. The little wisp of hair caught by a twig on my forehead would have made you laugh, I'm sure. It's ok. I'll be your comedian now.

I have found you.

Love,

Me

-------------

Letter #6
My Dearest Friend David,

I want to be your comedian, but I am so very tired. I am feeling a little under the weather...but thinking of you still. The pillows are propping me up so I can write, but I'm having a hard time. Writing is hard to do, my hand shakes so. Once I had beautiful handwriting. Once.

Do you remember the time you gave me the beautiful corsage for the junior prom, and then you smashed your chewing gum in the center of it? I laughed so hard I got hiccups, remember? I spent some time with my head in a paper bag, with you making jokes all the while.

David, my daughter has just brought to me an old photo album, and what should fall out but an elementary school picture of you, David! You were 7 or 8, smiling with amusement at the camera. My comedian. My dear soul.

I immediately brought your photograph to my chest, to my heart. The emotional rush of seeing your freckled face was such a shock.

That lopsided smile. Your impish grin. I know what's behind that grin, David. Only I.

And that's not all that fell in my lap from the old photo album.

You'll find this humorous: A newsclipping of the pop warner baseball team The Braves who won "due to the excellent pitching of David...".

How funny...how timely...how strange.

Just when I was putting you to rest. At a time when I was no longer looking for you on the streets of Georgia. The homeless guy, the banker, the board member.

What are you trying to tell me?

I will hold your school picture and the newsclipping dear - as dear as the memorabilia of my own children - for you were, are, my life. My youth.

I am still haunted, David, by memories of you.

When the mind is hungry, the mind plays dangerous games.

Love,

an older and wiser me

-----------

Letter 7
My David,

I haven't written in such a long time, David. I apologize. But I've thought of you almost every day. I'm thinking of you now, especially, David, because I believe I am coming home to you.

The cancer has spread. It hurts so bad. And those days I don't dream of you are the days the pain meds keep me from feeling.

I am exhausted now. So very tired. I have feverish dreams, I toss and turn, and sweat. The pain, it is unbearable. But in my troubled dreams, I have flashbacks of you - quick and vivid, like a movie of all we had done when we were together.

My daughters sit on the edge of my bed and read to me or talk to me - not with me, for I don't have the energy to respond. Sometimes they just sit with me, bring me some flowers from the garden. My garden, which I love so. It's unattended to now, but the flowers still come forth, like my memories of you.

David, remember the time we were shooting our BB guns, and I shot the mockingbird? It's a sin, so they say. And you shot the littlest chickadee. However did you make that mark?

And when we were through competing for best marksman, we looked down at the little birds and wondered what had we done? Death was not funny.

We dug a grave for the little birdies in my backyard with my mother's good silver spoon. Mother was so angry with us, until you looked at her with that cherubic face and apologized.

It's always been so hard to stay mad at you anyway.

Today my husband is by my side. He is never far away. He has put my favorite photographs of my family on the bedside table for me to see - along with your school picture and newsclipping. How thoughtful he is. I don't have the strength to reach for the pictures, but I know they are there.

I'm coming home to you, David. You are so very close to me now. My search for you is almost over. My mind is free and no longer hungry.

Lovingly,
Meg

-------------

Letter 8
David,

We buried Meg yesterday. I wanted you to know.

I've always thought of you kindly, and Meg and I talked about you a lot. Especially how you died.

You were so special to Meg. Another man would have been jealous. But I knew what you were to her when I met her. I got you when I got her, I guess.

Well, not much else to say, except that I did put your school picture and the newsclipping of your baseball game in her hands before the casket was closed.

I wanted you to know.

John

--------------
Epilogue

Nothing will ever satisfy my hunger for my David. Nothing. This essay has done wonders for putting my mind at rest, but I will always remain haunted by my David's presence, and I will always miss him so. My tears are for David. He deserves them.

May we all laugh,
Meg