Dearest Rachel –
On the way to the restaurant this morning, where the men’s group was meeting – honestly, you’d think as many would show up for food as study, but we rarely even manage half the crowd of a normal Saturday morning – I was listening to John Ondrasik’s “100 Years” in my car.
It wasn’t one of “our” songs, of course – it came out long after we were married, and in any event, it wasn’t of a topic that would have naturally applied to us when we were sending music back and forth to each other – but I’m pretty sure that we heard it together once upon a time when we first heard it. Weird to think that it was in church that we heard it; weirder still how soon after that, everything changed, be it from the pandemic, the lockdowns or your sudden departure.
That last, of course, is what really gives the song impact to me. The lone piano has always lent a poignant, introspective quality to it – and the lyrics practically demand they be thought about – but you don’t really ponder it unless you’ve actually been hit by the reality of what he’s saying.
There’s a reason he starts with the fifteen-year-old; that’s when literally nothing of what adults tell you about the future makes sense. When you’re in high school – unless someone in your school actually dies as a harsh reminder (which happened to both of us, now, didn’t it?) – you think you’re all but immortal. Moreover, not only are you going to live forever, you’re convinced that you’re going to always be as young, strong and good-looking (although for most of us, that’s not really a comfort; more on that in a moment) as you are at that point. Of course, there’s the flip side of that, insofar as if and when you’re not one of the ‘pretty people’ in high school, you’re left with the fear that you’ll always be relegated to second class status in life, because if this is the best you’ll ever be, what is there to hope for?
The funny thing is, when I was fifteen, I assumed that I’d be pretty much where I am now; living alone and on my own (albeit obviously without a son to take care of, or at least live with). The only difference, apart from Daniel’s presence (although who knows, I might have had to live with roommates after moving out from my parents’ place, which is kind of what live with Daniel and Logan is like, to a small extent) is that I would actually be used to it by now. What I’m already sick of after less than a thousand days of dealing with would have been considered perfectly normal to the alternate me my fifteen year old self understandably assumed I would become.
But of course, that’s not what happened. Somehow, I managed to partially reinvent myself in college (which I was hoping to be able to do). I was still socially awkward; your impression of me as the loud-mouthed know-it-all is more than evidence of that. But still, I learned to actually deal with people, rather than hiding out in my room (or a room; I couldn’t tell you how often I spent lunch in high school holed up in one practice room or another, in order to avoid hanging out in the cafeteria). It’s a lesson we had hoped Daniel could learn at college, but he’d come home every weekend (and I couldn’t stop him), so… yeah.
By twenty-two, yes, I had already come to the realization that you were, if not “The One for Me” (if that’s even a thing – and if it is, I really need to know, so I stop wasting my time looking for ‘Megumi’), the one I would have wished for had I been allowed to make that decision (or maybe, if I had left myself make that decision at the time – or would that have been too soon?). You were not “better than ever” – we hadn’t even started on that “ever” that I’m now after (not happily, as I’m sure you’re aware) – but you held the promise that things would indeed get “better” for the foreseeable future.
Our window between moments was shorter than John’s here; our family was on the way long before thirty-three, or even thirty. Why, by that age, you were already walking Daniel to school, now, weren’t you? I was never ‘the man,’ either (nor did I wish to be, to be sure); and I had been part of a “they” with you since before I was twenty-five. Again, it’s the sort of thing that makes these moments now so difficult; while fifteen-year-old me expected me to be here now, twentysomething me thought it was never going to happen to me. Why, even fifty-year-old me was fully convinced that I’d see myself out of this world with you at my side, tearfully but devotedly holding my hand as I slipped away.
Which, of course, is why I couldn’t relate to his forty-five year old moment, either. Heading into a crisis? Oh yes, my job was sucking the soul out of me, but I could always come home to you, and you were able to put it back in, and put me back together. The greeting kiss every time I walked through the door was a constant reminder that, no matter how bad things got at work, you still loved and cared for me. Who would be stupid enough to set that aside to buy a sports car (that he probably couldn’t afford) and try to pick up some hot chick half his age who didn’t so much give a damn about him as his money (which, again, he likely didn’t really have)? I’ll never understand that mentality, even though I’ve essentially been given license to do just that, if I wanted to. I really would prefer things to be set back to the way they were.
Well, except for the having to go to that job again. That would absolutely finish off what’s left of my soul at this point.
The bridge just glosses over so many years that, I suppose, just run together – or, just as accurately, Ondrasik hasn’t gotten to, so he doesn’t feel he’s qualified to dwell upon. Which is true even about what he does say. “Suddenly you’re wise”? Yeah, no, sorry, John. Nobody gets wise in any sort of hurry, and while age and experience give this air to those around you that you must know something, all you really learn is how little you really know. Although maybe acknowledging how stupid and foolish you are is true wisdom; I don’t know, I’m not there yet, either.
Finally, you get to a moment at the end, where you’re dying for just one more. And at this point, once again, I can’t grasp it. You and I have both seen the infirmities of age embodied in our parents; mine are still reasonably healthy (if you ignore dad’s feeding tube), but they can’t do what they once did (partly because of that, but also for a variety of other related reasons). Even if I were to keep myself in fairly good health for the next forty-four years of moments, would I even want to deal with so many of them, especially without you? I guess you never recognize “the best years of your life” until they’ve passed, but I’m not entirely sure they’d gotten to us before you had to go. But experiencing them on my own sort of disqualifies them from being “the best years” in the first place. And if they lack quality, why would I be desirous of more quantity of such substandard moments? I’d so much rather make my way to where you are.
But until then, honey, keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 