Postcard One

 

 Peggy,

     After fifty-two years. 

    This is not a love letter...well...

    First, I want to say I'm sorry. Sorry I was such an immature seventeen-year-old. Sorry I was my usual lazy, passive self; that I didn't try when you returned; that I didn't try to talk, to help, to reach you. 

    I don't remember what I wrote to you, I hope I offered comfort, friendship. If I did, I should have continued. Doing nothing isn't being much of a friend. 

    You were important to me. Even before the time you were in San Diego. I'm not sure why.  Your strength, I think, was part of it, me not having much. And being as young as I was, fucking was part of it. From your letters, it was your intelligence, your insight, your pain (I am attracted to those in pain, which, I guess is most women).

    I am not completely sure why they have affected me so much after reading them again a couple of weeks ago. The mood of the poems you sent, the pieces of you that you included, reflect my loneliness; reflected, filled, if for an imaginary scene. And they reminded me of more passionate times, more clearer times, more hopeful times.

    I hope you are alive and not suffering. If you are not, I hope life got better before...after I lost you... and then these words will just sit somewhere in some universe.

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