We continued to see one another off and on, almost as much as we had before the fight at the guesthouse, but it was never quite the same, we were not really the same, in fact I made a moral decision which weighed on me, that I needed to let go, but somehow I was co-dependent on her, a little, in the sense, she filled my time, my mind, my needs, and I hers. When I talked I spoke her name, when I ate she was a ghost by my side. We had bonded somehow internally, it would not be easily broken, if ever. No one condemned us for our actions at the guesthouse, not even Aaron, but it stuck nevertheless in my mind.
On December 10th, I went to the American Hotel, around the corner from the compound, as I walked outside the main gates I could see the top of it, it was painted drab-yellow, I had eaten there once every month I had been in Germany, on paydays usually, had a porterhouse steak. As I walked over to the Hotel, there Chris was waiting in the restaurant area. She was crying. It was about to come to a finish, –end.
It’s as though we both wanted it to end but did not know how to do it, and I guess it was being done for us. I would have liked to stay there in Germany, but psychologically things would have gotten worse, different, yes, not better though. Considering this uncertainty, it was better I simple get on that bus when it came to the hotel, and never looked back, as I expected Chris would. That’s the way it should end I told myself, like it started, fast and brief, like it never was.
We ate, looking up at one another; we caught each other’s sadness, and relief. People around us, some of my old friends were there, even Aaron, to bid me farewell. Maybe they all forgave me, but I didn’t quite forgive myself one hundred percent yet.
I remembered the poem by Robert Frost, “The Road not Taken,” as the bus pulled up. Chris walked with me out of the busy restaurant and onto the sidewalk, we hugged, and I looked at her, thinking there was only one thing I hoped for, perhaps even wished for, before I got onto the bus, that the pain of leaving for both of us be gone, but I guess sad feelings mean you had good times, we both could have taken a different road many of times but we chose not to, for whatever reasons, everything seemed naturally taken, we never seemed to have any doubts of that. Had we taken a different road in the beginningoh well, let’s leave that alone for another day, maybe down the road I’ll be able to answer that question more clearly for myself.
As I got on the bus, got situated, I sat down looked at her out of the window for the last time, gave her the victory sign, with my two fingers, not sure why, maybe because we both needed to feel we won, you know, in any kind of transaction, deal, everyone should be a winnerand I suppose we both were, we just got a little too connected; she smiled… the bus took offI seen that smile for miles.
Minnesota-to-Vietnam
[1971] I went home for thirty days, got a letter from Chris, she said she missed me, as it read it several times sitting on my twin bed in the attic apartment at my mother’s house, in St. Paul, Minnesota, the snow covering the window by my bed, as I looked outside at the below zero weather. I carefully put the short letter back into its envelope.
I somehow found a tear wanting to come out of my right eye, not sure why, the grieving processes I suppose. Life had no road maps and very little instructions I was learning, no formulas for such painI guess if I was successful, it was in the area of recognizing my limitations and to appreciate the interaction we shared, heart and mind, and a little of our souls. I guess I never expected the letter.
In a way it seemed more like a ‘Dear John Letter,’ they used to get in WWII, that is the American soldiers fighting over in Europe got them; I suppose they got them in every war, it was just my time. Pat Boone once made a song called ‘Dear John,’ it was a pretty song, but now it was reality. I used to sing to it when it first came out into the public domainin the record shops, I was a teenager than I think, now I didn’t want to look for the record, let it lay in the dust. As I glanced at the letter again, it said she was not going to write much. That she knew it was over, yet she missed me, she had very little to say, which I suppose I could say also, I didn’t write back.
٭
It was close to January as I looked out the window again in my attic apartment, the trees bare, winter snow filled up every inch of the ground, the wind could be heard whistling as it tried to make its way through the openings of the decaying window sills in this attic apartment, which is really a biggg-bedroom. I would soon have to go to Vietnam and fight a war I knew very little about, a new adventure, a new turn in the road of life. The sun was hiding, it would come out for a few hours I knew, and then be covered with a canopy of misty-gray white. But that was Minnesota for you. We live in an Ice Age here.
As I sat back starring at the letter one more time, I felt I was learning kindness at a young age, for we both were kind to each other if anything, she may have been wiser, but time was on my side to gain wisdom.
I had left some real good friends behind, especially Aaron, for he was a real friend, he let me know the rift between us was not eternal. He portrayed the person I would have liked to be, not what others wanted me to be, with all his imperfections, he was kinder than I would have been to someone like me. So many thoughts were going through my head these days.
See Dennis’ web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
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