We have not seen each other for nearly 60 years. She lives on the West Coast, and I am on the East Coast. I rarely think of her, as my memories of her are few. Naturally, many of my friends and former colleagues have passed away. However, to learn of her death - just like I have now - makes me feel... words seem insufficient... "disturbed and depressed" will have to do.
Why do I feel so...? I wonder. Then I remember: in the spring of 1965, she was "my girl."
I have sunshine on a cloudy day
When it's cold outside, I have May (oh)
I guess you would say
What can make me feel this way?
My girl, my girl, my girl
Talking 'bout my girl, my girl.
But as other songs pushed the temptations off the charts, our young romance began to unravel and then suddenly stopped (why, I don't remember). After graduating from college, there was never another chance to meet again. Subsequent girlfriends, not to mention a wife, inevitably diminished her place in the story of my life. She was never completely forgotten, but she was also never in my conscious thoughts. Until now….
fFacing my own inevitable demise, I confronted a long and slow sorting process - sorting, discarding, or keeping - the flotsam of my life, so that my survivors would not be burdened. A neatly typed note floated out from a pile of folders, accompanied by a photo, dated April 5, 1999, postmarked from Seattle, Washington. It was forwarded to me by a New York Times mailroom clerk while I was in my office in Virginia. The letter read:
I sat at the breakfast table of my now second husband, reading your article on Virginia Piedmont. If you are the same person I knew in college, your nickname was "Buddy," and you called me "Patums." You drew the lucky strike, enjoying playing Hoyt Axton on the jukebox….
I enclosed a recent photo. I hope the years haven't distorted recognition…. (They haven't!)
If you are that person, you can reach me at 206-XXX-XXXX. (Did I ever try? I meant to, but did I forget?)
So now, 25 years later, and 59 years after our sophomore year in college - I picked up my phone and keys. I dialed the number, and it was immediately dead. Usually, there is some sort of recording saying the number is no longer in service or some other situation. That was understandable; after all, the number I used was from the 25th decade.
Then, I turned to the internet - searching for her maiden name and the married name she used in the letter. Then suddenly, she was gone. I discovered she had died because the search function defaulted to "obituaries" and "death notices," and it happened immediately. I did not understand the cause of death, just that it occurred almost a year ago in the fall of 2023.
Was I so devastated by this news? My initial question still lingered. In our time, death is not surprising. With the future fading away, only the past remains. That part of my past should no longer be surprising.
I cannot say I miss her. I never knew the woman she became, the "her" who is now dead. Of course, what I miss is our youth. The young, hopeful us. Most importantly, I realize I miss the memories we shared.
This letter from her 25 years ago - a memory of memories - brings tears of loneliness and loss. With memories that can no longer be shared and thus validated, it feels as if I must silently speak a language that has already gone extinct. Just like in today's America, the stories we share and call real are becoming fewer and fewer, and we shout them in foreign tongues. We weep for what is lost.
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