Letter to Michael

[Those of you who heard Teri Garr read "Letter to Michael" at the National Memorial Day Concert 2000 will find that the reading and the original are somewhat different.  The head writer, Joan Owens-Myerson, needed to fill a five-minute segment for Michael's tribute, so she interviewed me over the phone for almost two hours: asked me to add more to what I could say to him, and then skillfully wove my thoughts and words into the original letter. Many of those thoughts are also found in "My First Visit to the Wall," which Joan also drew from.  The result at the Concert was an extension of the original, but every word is mine, simply woven by Joan into the finished whole so beautifully evoked by Teri Garr.] 

Beloved, I continue to feel the pain and anguish and loss as deeply as the day I was told you were gone.  The new friends I have made, the McAninch family I have recovered, the restored letters and photographs to replace my lost mementos, the web sites I have created for you and them--all have provided solace and some respite for my aching heart. But when you went down into that Valley, when you went back to defend your Marine brothers, my hand was in yours: I went with you; I feel the mortar fragments searing my own chest and back every day, and I groan and rage against the pain and unfairness of your tragedy.  Part of me, the best part of me, never returned from Vietnam either. Nothing, nothing can ever replace you in my life. 

Beloved, I weep for what you lost when you went into that Valley of Death; I weep for what we lost.   I have 'gone on,' as people here insist those of us left behind must do (for ourselves, though, or for them?).  I have gone on--but at what price?  You did what you had to do: I know that, and I honor you for your heroism and your sacrifice. But we lost everything that day, Michael, everything: our marriage; our life together; working, playing, laughing together; and, oh Michael, our children.  I love my son: he is supposed to be here; I know that.  But I long for the children we would have had together as much as I long for you.  I love my family, friends, colleagues, students, and career.  But I long for the years we lost together: the movies, music, sailing, evenings with friends and family; school and studying, careers, teaching, hardships as well as joys--together.  And the little things, too: I often smile to myself when I think how much you would have loved CD's, VCR's and computers, Sweetheart!  How you would have jumped right in to record movies and music; figure out the mysteries of hardware and software so you could write your poems, talk with your friends on-line, help your students.  Oh, you would have loved all this so much.   But you also still would have found time to build your sailboats, read philosophy, write poems to me on napkins while at lunch, make spaghetti for me because I love it so (still), and go for long evening walks, hand-in-hand, find that romping puppy again to play with, laughing, laughing, laughing while I grin and capture that moment all over again in my heart.

Beloved, I feel your presence everywhere; I see you everywhere--your strong confidence and your blue eyes smiling into mine--and I miss you so terribly: my heart remains broken.  At night, when I turn into my pillow and weep again, I feel your arms gently wrap me close and hear you whisper to me that it will one day be right again.  Until then, I will keep your memory alive; but I will miss you, miss you, miss you.  And I will love you. 

~ Your Joanie

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