Dear Linda,

I didn’t know you were sick, that you were dying. We had re-established contact awhile back but then lost touch again the last couple of years. We used to laugh about how we would remember the young, fun times when we got old. You didn’t get old enough, Linda, not nearly. But I will remember those times, and I will remember you. I suspect you were at your best then: full of soaring future fantasies, exuding life, poised on the brink, eager to explore the wide world beyond Harrison Ave. I only know a little about what you encountered in that other world. I went away for a long time too. But I won’t forget that incandescent smile with the barely revealed lower left incisor; the involuntary snort when you laughed too hard; the masticated fingernails that you so proudly, finally, briefly mastered; the biting intelligence and quick wit; the self-deprecating humor and vulnerability; the righteous anger that popped to the surface when you felt an injustice; the fierce loyalty to family and faith; the quest for beauty; the passion you invested in everything; the compassion you felt for the suffering; the hand-delivered letters in the dead of winter; the white dress with the blue satin sash; and much more that goes unsaid. I’m sorry that I didn’t know, that I didn’t make it my business to find out. I wish we could have had some final time to talk and sort things out. I do ardently hope that the last days you had provided a merited measure of peace. Goodbye, dear Linda.

Love,
Gary