I write so I can get things out of me. Once they're out, I can let go, I can move on. When I wrote this letter, it was to get my emotions on paper, outside of me. When I posted it, it was evidence that I had set it aside and left it behind. The closure I wanted so desperately finally came, and although it didn't come in the way I expected it at the time I wrote this letter, it came in the right way, and I'm glad for it.
Hopeful Desperation: The Last Letter
3.21.02
There is so much I wish I could tell you, but considering the uncertainty of current circumstances, it wouldn’t be terribly appropriate. But I have a few free minutes here at work, and I don’t want these things lost forever, so I thought I’d write them down. Hopefully, someday soon I’ll be able to show this to you.
I was going through the personal stuff I have saved on my computer at work, organizing it and deleting what I don’t need to keep. I ran across a document I made when I left MHAIC last year consisting of the few emails I saved on their server. I cut and pasted them into a Word document so they wouldn’t be lost. Three of them were concerning Paul and his death; letters from his mom and from Brian updating me on what was happening with the family and the trial of the man who hit him. One was an amazing article written by one of the men from Delirious? on modern worship. The last one was an email I sent to Robyn the day after you and I took that walk in the woods behind your house. Ironically enough, the timestamp on the email was March 22, 2001, which means the walk took place a year ago tomorrow.
I thought about that day last year, how it was warmer than it is right now. I was wearing my only pair of Gap jeans and the Nike sweatshirt I got in Chicago when I went with the girls over Memorial Day and the weather got colder than we’d expected. I think it’s strange that I can recall what I was wearing that day. You normally remember that sort of thing, not me. I remember being nervous about it because I couldn’t guess what you were feeling or thinking at that time and I was afraid to be very optimistic about us. Nevertheless, I excitedly rushed out of that useless guitar class to meet you.
I was so glad you brought up the unspoken thing that was tickling both our minds. Who knows when, or if, I would have worked up the courage to address it. I was even more glad that you felt the same way I did. Some of the lines you drew that day I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle. Some things you said made me respect you even more than I already did. Others simply warmed my heart.
And now, a year later, I realize that being with you is what I look forward to. When you are in a room, it feels like home. Your smile is contagious and getting you to display it as often as possible is a challenge I accept readily. I want to help make your life easier and happier in whatever way I can.
Now that we’re entrenched in this fairly difficult spot, there are certainly times when I get weary and begin to wonder why I’m still hanging on. But then some smell will remind me of you, or I’ll see that glint in your eye that I used to see regularly but now only see intermittently, and I am reminded of what you mean to me. And my hope is renewed. You and I have been so careful with one another, careful to be honest, careful not to move too quickly. All that is good. I’m glad for it. But now here I am in this place I’d really like to be out of by now and because I’m here, I’m unable to tell you exactly how I feel now that I am certain of it. So I’ll write it so that when we are beyond these dry spaces, I’ll be able to print this out and you’ll know I felt this way all the while.
I love you.
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