You know, my love, that the worlds we have each created for ourselves
are galaxies apart.
Our language games are mutually untranslatable.

We never had a chance, my love. Even I know that.

We would never have been able to achieve an understanding of each other
deep enough
to overcome our fear of the unknown, (and utterly unknowable),
that we symbolize for each other.

The logical, brutally rational part of me knows that we could never have made each other happy.

So why must I, though you have been gone now for quite some time,
keep my mind on you all the time?

Why do I still feel this way, thinking about you every day?
And I don’t even know you.

I write this not to try to change anything.

I have lived long enough not to hold out for what cannot be.

Despite my unwanted, embarrassingly unrealistic romantic dreams from Hell,
well, not exactly Hell,
say, from the dark cave out of which fly the blind bats of activated archetypes,
inevitably,
we still would have had to face eternity, or the lack thereof, alone.

You are still looking forward to an eternal life with God and, I realize now that, ridiculously,
I still can’t stop dreaming of an earthly paradise with you.

Nasty business, my love, that we are each in love with an illusion.

What if we lived in a world in which our longed for illusions
were not just desperate self-delusion but pointed at some kind of Truth?

Do you think that would make us happy?

Isn’t it pretty to think so, my love? Isn’t it pretty to think so?

He was brought into the world in poverty, in confusion, into a world of conflict and pain all of which was not his fault, all of which had nothing to do with him. He was conceived in love, but by the time he was born love had passed and all that was left was isolation and two separate parents trying hard not to acknowledge that their life together was over.

I remember the many walks we took together, my son and I. He was so little and I carried him on my chest facing outward in a baby carrier and he learned how to “steer me” by pressing a foot against one of my thighs so that I would turn in the direction he pressed and he could see better what it was that had caught his eye.

We walked all summer and he learned to love a certain stray cat, garbage trucks, fire engines, and motorcycles. We found and explored, it seemed, every construction site in the city and I taught him the miracle of the sunflowers that bloomed in gardens of new life so big it made us think that, perhaps, this beauty that we shared could be enough and, perhaps, could make up for the everything else that was not. When summer ended and the sunflowers went away, I assured my son that it was all right. They would return again in the spring. I had really thought they would.

One day we walked on a devastating autumn day, the trees an explosion of colors, the afternoon deliciously crisp with a slight chill in the air. We were late and in a hurry to get home. Suddenly, he stopped me and turned me to see, what? I looked and, at first, I couldn’t see what it could possibly be. Suddenly, I saw. A breathtaking autumn leaf tumbled through parabolas of time now forever present, forever tumbling now for me to contemplate, there forever for me to long for, suddenly awakening our shared beginner’s mind, a moment that will resonate forever, long after the pain of many quiet afternoons without him fades relentlessly into the everlasting October light that leaves behind so many painful, unanswered questions.