Sometimes you read
something that's so beautiful, you don't care if it's true. This Boston man's
"Missed Connections" posting on Craigslist, looking for a woman who
saved his life back in 1972, is one of those things.
The "Missed
Connections" section is an advertising art form unto itself. Daily
heartbreak and hilarity collide in a whirlwind of humanity that can make for a
good read at the worst of times. But then, every now and again, you come across
transcendent perfection—a story you never want to forget.
In a short letter that
could fit right in with the stories in Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried, a
Vietnam veteran seeks a woman he met and courted for one hour, and has never
forgotten. It feels too well written to be true. But if it is, and you're out
there somewhere, sweetheart, don't answer him back. Time is cruel that way, and
some memories deserve to live on forever unchanged.
Read the whole ad
below. Photo above: Will Fisher/Flickr
I met you in the rain
on the last day of 1972 - m4w (Old State House)
I met you in the rain
on the last day of 1972, the same day I resolved to kill myself.
One week prior, at the
behest of Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger, I'd flown four B-52 sorties over
Hanoi. I dropped forty-eight bombs. How many homes I destroyed, how many lives
I ended, I'll never know. But in the eyes of my superiors, I had served my country
honorably, and I was thusly discharged with such distinction.
And so on the morning
of that New Year's Eve, I found myself in a barren studio apartment on Beacon
and Hereford with a fifth of Tennessee rye and the pang of shame permeating the
recesses of my soul. When the bottle was empty, I made for the door and vowed,
upon returning, that I would retrieve the Smith & Wesson Model 15 from the
closet and give myself the discharge I deserved.
I walked for hours. I
looped around the Fenway before snaking back past Symphony Hall and up to
Trinity Church. Then I roamed through the Common, scaled the hill with its
golden dome, and meandered into that charming labyrinth divided by Hanover
Street. By the time I reached the waterfront, a charcoal sky had opened and a
drizzle became a shower. That shower soon gave way to a deluge. While the other
pedestrians darted for awnings and lobbies, I trudged into the rain. I suppose
I thought, or rather hoped, that it might wash away the patina of guilt that
had coagulated around my heart. It didn't, of course, so I started back to the
apartment.
And then I saw you.
You'd taken shelter
under the balcony of the Old State House. You were wearing a teal ball gown,
which appeared to me both regal and ridiculous. Your brown hair was matted to
the right side of your face, and a galaxy of freckles dusted your shoulders.
I'd never seen anything so beautiful.
When I joined you under
the balcony, you looked at me with your big green eyes, and I could tell that
you'd been crying. I asked if you were okay. You said you'd been better. I
asked if you'd like to have a cup of coffee. You said only if I would join you.
Before I could smile, you snatched my hand and led me on a dash through
Downtown Crossing and into Neisner's.
We sat at the counter
of that five and dime and talked like old friends. We laughed as easily as we
lamented, and you confessed over pecan pie that you were engaged to a man you
didn't love, a banker from some line of Boston nobility. A Cabot, or maybe a
Chaffee. Either way, his parents were hosting a soirée to ring in the New Year,
hence the dress.
For my part, I shared
more of myself than I could have imagined possible at that time. I didn't
mention Vietnam, but I got the sense that you could see there was a war waging
inside me. Still, your eyes offered no pity, and I loved you for it.
After an hour or so, I
excused myself to use the restroom. I remember consulting my reflection in the
mirror. Wondering if I should kiss you, if I should tell you what I'd done from
the cockpit of that bomber a week before, if I should return to the Smith &
Wesson that waited for me. I decided, ultimately, that I was unworthy of the
resuscitation this stranger in the teal ball gown had given me, and to turn my
back on such sweet serendipity would be the real disgrace.
On the way back to the
counter, my heart thumped in my chest like an angry judge's gavel, and a
future—our future—flickered in my mind. But when I reached the stools, you were
gone. No phone number. No note. Nothing.
As strangely as our
union had begun, so too had it ended. I was devastated. I went back to
Neisner's every day for a year, but I never saw you again. Ironically, the
torture of your abandonment seemed to swallow my self-loathing, and the
prospect of suicide was suddenly less appealing than the prospect of
discovering what had happened in that restaurant. The truth is I never really
stopped wondering.
I'm an old man now, and
only recently did I recount this story to someone for the first time, a friend
from the VFW. He suggested I look for you on Facebook. I told him I didn't know
anything about Facebook, and all I knew about you was your first name and that
you had lived in Boston once. And even if by some miracle I happened upon your
profile, I'm not sure I would recognize you. Time is cruel that way.
This same friend has a
particularly sentimental daughter. She's the one who led me here to Craigslist
and these Missed Connections. But as I cast this virtual coin into the wishing
well of the cosmos, it occurs to me, after a million what-ifs and a lifetime of
lost sleep, that our connection wasn't missed at all.
You see, in these
intervening forty-two years I've lived a good life. I've loved a good woman.
I've raised a good man. I've seen the world. And I've forgiven myself. And you
were the source of all of it. You breathed your spirit into my lungs one rainy
afternoon, and you can't possibly imagine my gratitude.
I have hard days, too.
My wife passed four years ago. My son, the year after. I cry a lot. Sometimes
from the loneliness, sometimes I don't know why. Sometimes I can still smell
the smoke over Hanoi. And then, a few dozen times a year, I'll receive a gift.
The sky will glower, and the clouds will hide the sun, and the rain will begin
to fall. And I'll remember.
So wherever you've
been, wherever you are, and wherever you're going, know this: you're with me
still.
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