It’s been two days since I heard that you died.
It was afternoon when my brother’s grandson woke me up and shouted out the news to me. He said someone had called. I wonder why he thinks that I am hard of hearing.
I made them find your son’s number in the phone book and called him. He said you had mentioned my name a few times, but he did not remember ever meeting me. I don’t think he knew about us, and I let it be. So I offered my condolences. He sounded a lot like an older you – but perhaps, that is because you were only twenty when I last spoke with you.
I never apologized for going away. So here – I am sorry. I suppose it was some consolation that, years later, I found I shared a name with one of your children. I wish I could have spoken to you after, but I saw it your way. It would have served no purpose.
I remember that on the way back, I prayed that you would have waited, but I guess some prayers are meant to be unanswered. I knew that there would be no one else after you, and things stayed that way.
This is not a farewell. I bade good bye sixty five years ago. I did not mean it to be final, but that’s how it was meant to be. I suppose it turned out well. But I always wondered if things could have been better.
I have not written in a while now. It is rather difficult these days. My eyesight is failing and my mind spends most of its time browsing through memories. Some of those memories have you in them.
With me they will perish. They will be our secret – forever lost to the world.