Dear Dave,
It's been 57 years since you died. What a horrible moment! A moment, a time of extreme anguish for so many. For me. It's taken me a lifetime to process the grief, the questions, the loss.
Since your death there have been so many moments, dreams and experiences that point to the idea you're still with me. The word haunting means having qualities such as sadness or beauty that linger. It's not that scary definition I used to believe as a child, it's a quiet, sad, lingering feeling; it's a string of strange experiences that point to the idea that you're around, that you're still with me. If I listed them here, it would be too much to write at the moment. It would be a book in itself!
So many dreams, songs that hit a place in my soul, vivid encounters that are incredibly 'other worldly'. Just for the sake of others who read this, I'll list one experience that was especially unexplainable.
It was in the early 2000's, I was living in Kansas City, when one day, while driving home from work during rush hour, on a busy street it was literally stop and go traffic. In the lane next to me, on my left was a 1967 GTO. That's what you drove, a 1967 GTO. Traffic was now moving slowly, around 25 mph. There was a car behind the GTO, and the car behind it was ANOTHER 67'GTO. It felt, I felt, other worldy' for sure. I believed it was your way of saying that you're here.
Anyway, I know that we're connected. It just obviously wasn't meant to be that we would share our lives together. Yours was cut so short. I'll never understand why you were taken so young. Even in my intense grief, my 17 year old self, I felt the pain your mother must have felt, the pain your father felt, and the pain your brother Larry felt.
In almost seven months I'll be 75. Unbelievable! I've been happily married for 50 years in July. (Well, some years were more difficult than others.) But since the day I met you, you have always been in my heart, in my soul.
I had a dream last night about a friend of mine who is now gone. For some reason, one train of thought about the dead led to another, but those thoughts always, ALWAYS, wind up with you.
It's strange, because I can't say I miss you, but I can say I have always and will always wonder 'what if'. I'll alway have questions. One specific question is, was our young love really what I remember? Did you really love me?
Two or three nights before you died, I broke up with you. Our relationship was turning real sour, toxic. We had been together close to two years. Yet I mustered the courage to break up with you. I felt empowered when I did that, very sad, but empowered.
Then, you called me the night before you died. I'd been here before; you were going to pursue me, I'd cave, and we would wind up getting back together. But I told my sister, who answered the phone, to tell you I didn't want to see you again. That night, I had a dream that you were in a helicopter accident. The only person I told about that dream before you died was my father.
The next night, you were riding around in your friend's jeep. Mike was driving, he took a corner too fast, skidded, and you were both thrown from the jeep. You died at the scene of head injuries.
The second question will always be, what would have happened if I had answered the phone that night. And no, I can honestly say I don't feel guilt, at least not most of the time. I just wonder.
Well, I need to get back to my 74 year old life. I still love you, because love never dies, even imperfect love.
Will I see you again? That's the million dollar question, isn't it.
From my heart,
Peggy
