Remain in Light

Thus it is that certain persons always reappear in one’s life to herald one’s pleasures or one’s griefs.
– Marcel Proust, Time Regained

It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.
– The White Queen, Through the Looking-Glass



January, 1997

David,

I know you’re never coming back to Paris. It’s been more than a year since I left the key to my apartment so you could find the poems I wrote for you and the statue of Venus de Milo. I don’t know if you ever went there. You may not even receive this letter. Maybe your father will intercept it and throw it in the garbage.

I am living with Irène, editing manuscripts for a publishing house and trying to move on with my life. Irène is my best friend, sister and second mother all rolled into one. You only got to spend a little time with her, and that’s a shame. She gives me unconditional love and support, has given me a home. She would have done the same for you.

I’ve been dating a guy who runs a bookstore on the Left Bank. He’s nice and wants to take our relationship to the next level, but I still think about you. I keep hoping you’re going to show up here on rue Rampon and we can pick up where we left off. Remember how happy we were those last days in Paris – walking along the Seine, making love, planning our future?

If you didn’t love me, that was one thing, but to deny who you are because your father threatened to cut you off is crazy. You’re an adult, and to let someone else dictate your happiness makes no sense to me. But you’ve made your decision and I have to live with that.

I told you once that I believe nothing is random. There is chaos all around us, but if you pay attention, listen closely, patterns begin to emerge. I call it synchronicity, but others call it fate, or destiny or divine intervention. I believe we were fated to meet, but perhaps we weren’t meant to be together.

I guess I’m writing this letter as a form of closure, whether you read it or not. I just needed to put the words down. I want to be happy, so I’m saying goodbye to you.


Martin

P.S. I still have a scar on my forehead from the bomb.