Dearest Rachel –
I woke up this morning to the sound of thunder and rain, and between that and the darkness, I decided this time around to let myself sleep in a bit longer. Perhaps, I reasoned, the storm will pass by over the next hour or so.
But while the pitch darkness of five-thirty gave way to at least enough ambient to see and walk around in, and the patter on the bedroom ceiling came and went intermittently, it didn’t seem to want to go away completely. That, or it was a more widespread storm than I was hoping. Indeed, after forty minutes of waiting around, there was a particularly bright flash of light, followed by a crash of thunder that, while far enough behind to conclude that it was at least a half-mile away, was more than loud enough to suggest that this was a storm not to be taken lightly.
The thing was, I was already committed to working out this morning as soon as I thought it would be acceptable to get out of the house. I was already dressed in my usual workout apparel; which is to say, my gym shorts and whatever T-shirt I had been wearing the day before, as my exertions would render it that much more necessary for it to be thrown into the wash (indeed, it would probably be necessary to be hung out to dry before consigning it to the laundry pile, although that would have nothing to do with going out in this storm).
You’ll recognize the shirt, despite that fact that I hadn’t had it for very long before you had to depart. If nothing else, though, I was wearing it when we were touring San Antonio, just a month before the world closed down; the folks have a copy of a photo taken of us on the Riverwalk sitting on their mantle along with other family photos.
I don’t wear it very often anymore, as it’s rather pointless, given the context. You know the story behind it; it refers to the fact that, in the Doctor Who continuity, Rory Williams was tasked with guarding the Pandorica (the box in the background of the logo on my shirt) in which his wife, Amy Pond, the Eleventh Doctor’s main companion had been placed after suffering what might have been a mortal wound at his hands – obviously, it’s a long story, but you know it as well or better than I do, so I don’t have to go into all that much detail. Since at this point, he was an Auton with all of Rory’s memories, he was essentially immortal and indestructible, and thus able to watch over the box for nearly two millennia, gaining near-mythic status as the “Lone Centurion”; hence, the name of the security service. Loosely translated, the motto advertises “the faithful security of eternal love,” which is what drove him to do it.
The thing is, this doesn’t fit me any more. Oh, the shirt fits just fine – indeed, it might look better on me now than when I got it – but the whole concept doesn’t click with our situation anymore. After all, no matter how faithfully I might watch over your ashes, I know there isn’t a chance that you’ll be brought back due to its restorative properties. Even if it had any, there’s no sense in your returning from where you are in any event. No matter how much love I might have for you, I can’t keep what’s left of you safe for your return, because it’s never going to happen. As King David said of his first son with Bathsheba, I will go to you someday, but I can’t bring you back to me.
Indeed, even if I could, would that be the loving thing to do? I’ve written about it before, but it bears repeating; wouldn’t it be a form of selfishness bordering on cruelty to wrench you out of heaven just so that you could be at my side for another few decades? Sure, it doesn’t come to much in comparison to eternity, but if I’ll be with you soon enough, there’s no point in insisting you leave paradise for my sake. That’s rather the opposite of loving, isn’t it?
So yeah, I don’t wear it much these days, because of all that. I should probably wear it more often, though, just to try to wear it out. I have shirts I like better and would like to see last longer, but they’re likely to be worn out sooner than this one, simply because it isn’t appropriate for the lot I have to deal with. What do you think I should do with it? It’s a lovely sentiment, declaring one’s faithfulness to one’s beloved (I remember how, at the one Doctor Who convention we went to a few months before San Antonio, I jocularly ‘thanked’ Arthur Darvill – the fellow who played Rory – for portraying the boyfriend that none of the rest of us guys would be able to measure up to), but there’s a certain point at which you have to let go, too.
Still, I might as well leave it to you, honey, when I ask (as always) that you keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. Clearly, I’m still in need of it.
Letters to Rachel 