Dear Walter

A short letter about some thoughts I've had when someone loses part of their life.

Dear Walter,

 

There are so many things I want to tell you, so I am writing them all down here in this letter, hoping you may one day get this. I’m not the best at remembering things much these days, may this letter serve as my memory.

 

I lost out on a lot of love after you died, a lot of laughter and late night tea and conversation. I still baked your favourite cakes and breads, stayed up late and ate them alone, thinking about what we would say to each other now, in this new world. I knitted you things, Norwegian sweaters and mitts. Kept all your pictures out, played your accordion on the worst of nights and cried whenever I heard a harmonica.

 

You managed to miss out on many of the grandchildren and all of the great grandchildren our kids had. They really started to come about after you left. I got lost some days, found myself talking to myself, telling me stories of things that may not have happened.

 

Even though those were different days back in the early 90’s and technology was changing our world daily (I even have a computer now), I still wondered what we would say to each other, what made your day interesting, different than mine. I don’t need to say it, but I missed you, I missed having your simple self to take care of. I wrote about you in letters to friends. I wrote about you in letters to myself, prayed for you in church, even told the pastor that I knew I would see you again one day. We were golden together, you always told me that.

 

I wanted to tell you about the accident. The car accident I had that took so much away from me. A woman a fraction of my age rear-ended me, dislocating my life in an instant. I have been forever limited after that and have never been the same.

 

I wanted you to know about the divorce, all of them of course, but mostly the one that really mattered, the one that changed personalities, lifestyles. I know what you are thinking, all divorces change lifestyles, but this one went further than that. In some ways, it changed the past. Sometimes I wonder if our son ever had a real plan for life. He did all right for himself while you were around. But that was it. He never did anything after you died.

 

I’ve done a lot of things without you. But I thought of you along the way. I know you were with me, my husband. I still find it hard to believe that I have lived more than twenty-five years past your death. I had no idea I could ever grow this old without you. I miss the life we shared. I miss having someone to go on outings with, hold hands with, live and love with. This house never sounded as hollow as it does right now. I often think about you and wonder what you would be doing right now. I bet you would have aged gracefully, would have made a fine husband even into your late 80’s. I always loved the way you fixed things, invented things, made life come alive in that old garage.

 

I kept all your tools and cars. The garage hasn’t changed much over the years. All the changes are the things that don’t take place instantly, the normal rotting of woods, weakening of foundations and such. It happens over time. I’ve been thinking about replacing the roof, upgrading the shingles. It’s funny when I talk to people about such business these days and they mention to me that the new roof is guaranteed for twenty-five years…I sort of laugh to myself, a ninety-two year old woman, what do I need a twenty-five year warranty for these days?

 

I wanted to tell you about my open-heart surgery. That was the moment that scared me most over the years, the only time I was sure I was coming to see you. A lot of things in life are fixable these days, maybe even some aspects of a broken heart. I was afraid to go under, afraid to be opened up…what if they couldn’t put me back together? I wanted you to assure me it would be ok, say the usual things you say about doctors and their craft. But I got through it, woke up and asked if we were going to surgery and the nurse smiled at me and said, “you already had surgery, just rest now”. They say that recovery is half the battle, I think it was the whole battle.

 

I wanted to come home some days and tell you about mistakes I made. Nothing major, just the little things I did, like accidentally buy low fat ice cream instead of the good stuff. I just wanted to have those meaningless conversations with you again. It just seems so human to want that, to want to tell someone something so insignificant. But I would have never realized that we talked about those things if you were still here.

 

I have told our grandchildren and great grandchildren about you. I wanted them to know about us and our story. I told them about how we met, you a German soldier, me a young Norwegian. I’ve even taken some of them to my hometown, showed them the harbor we met in during Second World War. It seems so impossible now, to think we met the way we did. It was a great escape and an even greater beginning. We had it all on that farm we bought when we moved to Canada. It was a real place to raise a young family.

 

Sometimes I feel I have overdone it, living to be this great age. I have watched most of our friends either die or go stupid. Sometimes I wonder what is going to hit me first. I know I’m ok though, I still remember all the names of our thirty-two children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. I know all their voices over the phone.

 

We built a wonderful life together, Walter. We outlived world wars, navigated out of Nazi Germany and started new again in Canada. We raised three beautiful boys, who in turn raised their own families. And it just keeps repeating. I wish you could have been here, wish you could have seen everything we created and just watched it grow.

 

I just wanted to tell you of all the things you missed, have some conversation with you, get your point of view instead of assuming one for you. I just wanted to talk to you again, meaningless conversations, because those were my favourite moments, the ones we shared when no one else was looking. I just wanted to say “hello” one more time.