August 9th (22 page)

Dearest Daniel,

I am saddened beyond belief, in tears as I write this and hopeful with all my being that there is a miracle out there with your name on it.

Where and how do I start this letter? On every August 9
^th
for the past forty-five years you’ve shared yourself with me. I have received, read and reread countless times every letter that now fills a folder in the safest place in my home.

Although you know nothing of me, I know so very much about you for I have read your story and followed your journey. I know you as an extraordinarily good man with a wonderfully giving heart and brilliant mind. I also know your demons, your weaknesses and all that makes you human.

I know you love a challenge and have had but one true love, your beautiful wonderful Maggie. I know that the joys of your life are now your children Caroline and Ben, and your grand children Emily and Nick. I know no matter what you’ve accomplished, which is beyond substantial, you have never felt more pride than when
celebrating the many achievements of your children and grandchildren.

I know dealing with Ben’s autism has been the single biggest frustration of your life and I also know how lucky Ben is to have you as his father. I know how many lives you have touched and made so much better. I am honored to have shared your journey. Your yearly diary gave me perspective on my own life, my path and ultimately my choices.

You have taught me so much through the years. You helped guide me out of an unhappy marriage and made me realize I was worthy of loving myself. Your parenting skills enabled me to make better decisions for how to single handedly raise my two sons. Your realignment of values gave me the impetus to leave a lucrative law practice and, with some irony, start a new career as a law professor.

Now after forty-five years I need to answer the very first question in your very first letter. Yes, yes, yes! During that August 9
^th
concert, I too, felt something on a much deeper level than I’d ever felt before or since. That feeling, that image of you for those few seconds has never left me. I’ve probably started to write you a hundred letters but they were letters I could never mail. I could never be the other woman and totally understood the deep love you had for Maggie, even after her death. I’ve never forgotten the first sentence of your letter the year Maggie was tragically killed. You said, “I am broken.”

Those three words and the pain I felt in your letter caused me to book a flight and catch a cab to JFK. Then, as I was about to board the plane I started to tremble. I
couldn’t take that flight. I didn’t want to appear opportunistic and I was afraid I would disappoint you. I couldn’t compete with your image of me from so many years before. Now, having written these words, I regret not having the courage to take that flight.

Dan, forty-five years later I’m still confused over how to explain what we felt. I’m overwhelmed with sadness over never having the strength to break my silence and describe all you have meant to me. As you can probably tell from this letter, we do share the inability to forgive ourselves. Unfortunately I’ve never had anyone in my life with the strength of your Maggie to help me.

Every year I would anxiously await your letter and I even became quite proficient in making sure the post office always forwarded my mail and also notified you of my address changes. I must also confess to checking you out on Facebook and Googling you although I only read a hundred of the impressive Google entries. From any point of view, Caroline is right, you are quite the catch!

As I close what will probably be my one and only letter to you I must tell you exactly how I feel at this very moment. What we felt in those brief seconds forty-five years ago took my breath away and still moves me to the core. The “what if questions” will always haunt me. And if there is more to come, in whatever form, I only hope I have the courage to approach you and catch your soul once again.

With all my love forever,