howl

On the weekend I got a letter from M.  I haven't spoken with him in a number of years, not since maybe 2004.  So ten years, maybe more.  He wrote to tell me he had heard about my sister's death, and wanted to offer his condolences.  He wanted to tell me the things he remembered, the things he had thought about.  Back then, and recently too.

I met M at a time when things were messy.  But that thing psychologists tell you about how children do not know that their lives aren't normal because they assume everyone lives just the same way they do -- that thing is true.  And not only for children, for adults too.  At least for young adults.  So I met M at a time when things were messy, but I did not know that things were messy because I was accustomed to the mess.  I did not know I was a mess because I thought everyone was like me.

By the time I figured out what a mess I had been, M had distanced himself, which is only evidence of his good mental health and strong survival instincts.  He knew better than to latch onto a sinking ship, but he stayed in touch, just from a safe distance.  A letter here and there.  I do not know why, because I was obviously not good to him, or good for him.  And sometimes I appreciated it and sometimes I did not.

This time the letter came at a time when I could appreciate its sincerity, his sincerity, and the type of person he really was.  Is.  All of which I have rarely recognized.  And it makes me feel lucky that people like this still see me as being worth making the effort to communicate with.  And it makes me wonder why.




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