(found on a stack with all the others)
Helen is doing quite well. We celebrated our 20th over the weekend. She doesn’t send her regards to you, babe, but she doesn’t even know. Don’t blame her.
Harold had his first Little League game last Wednesday. I was smiling almost as much watching him play as I am right now, darling, being able to share this all with you. That’s about it though. Things certainly got quiet out here in the suburbs over the last few years.
You missed out on a lot though, babe, quite a whole lot by letting me alone the way you did, but I can’t say that without knowing that I missed out on just as much without having you next to me. We could’ve been something else, darling, something absolutely else if we could’ve stuck together – if we could’ve gotten stuck together in the first place.
But now here I am, and it feels like I’m doing just a whole series of impressions – one of myself on that night, one of how I’m supposed to be right now – and it all just feels a little hollow. It’s satisfying, babe, but there’s an echoing inside my guts, and it’s telling me that something’s missing from inside of me, and it’s been echoing ever since that night at the gas station when I saw you.
I remember the freckles on your face, and I remember being able to trace out the Big Dipper between a few of them on your right cheek, and I remember all the other constellations that I could trace out underneath your curtain of silky black hair. Babe, I remember the feel of my leather jacket and how it got tight under my arms when I tried to wave at you. I remember the noise of the gasoline as it splashed on the ground at my feet, and I remember that little smile that twitched across your lips and how you tried to cover it with your hand and how your eyes kept on smiling anyway.
And, my darling, I remember having the feeling that I was forgetting something or that I was about to forget something, and I remember having that feeling come over me at the exact moment when you turned away from me, got in your car and drove off.
And, babe, that was years ago, and I’m still writing you letters. I keep writing you letters, and I keep saying the same old sorry stuff to you over and over again.
Babe, I’ll always be writing you letters.
Maybe you’ll be able to read them someday.