Monday, October 19, 2015



This is a Boston man's "Missed Connections" post on Craigslist about a woman he met on New Year's Eve in 1972. 

It was too beautiful not to share, and a great reminder that you never know why the people you meet are there... I 


met you in the rain on the last day of 1972, the same day I resolved to kill myself. One week prior, at the behest of 


Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger, I'd flown four B-52 sorties over Hanoi. I dropped forty-eight bombs. How many 


homes I destroyed, how many lives I ended, I'll never know. But in the eyes of my superiors, I had served my 


country honorably, and I was thusly discharged with such distinction. And so on the morning of that New Year's 


Eve, I found myself in a barren studio apartment on Beacon and Hereford with a fifth of Tennessee rye and the pang 


of shame permeating the recesses of my soul. When the bottle was empty, I made for the door and vowed, upon 


returning, that I would retrieve the Smith & Wesson Model 15 from the closet and give myself the discharge I 


deserved. I walked for hours. I looped around the Fenway before snaking back past Symphony Hall and up to Trinity 


Church. Then I roamed through the Common, scaled the hill with its golden dome, and meandered into that 


charming labyrinth divided by Hanover Street. By the time I reached the waterfront, a charcoal sky had opened and 


a drizzle became a shower. That shower soon gave way to a deluge. While the other pedestrians darted for awnings 


and lobbies, I trudged into the rain. I suppose I thought, or rather hoped, that it might wash away the patina of guilt 


that had coagulated around my heart. It didn't, of course, so I started back to the apartment. And then I saw you. 


You'd taken shelter under the balcony of the Old State House. You were wearing a teal ball gown, which appeared 


to me both regal and ridiculous. Your brown hair was matted to the right side of your face, and a galaxy of freckles 


dusted your shoulders. I'd never seen anything so beautiful. When I joined you under the balcony, you looked at me 


with your big green eyes, and I could tell that you'd been crying. I asked if you were okay. You said you'd been 


better. I asked if you'd like to have a cup of coffee. You said only if I would join you. Before I could smile, you 


snatched my hand and led me on a dash through Downtown Crossing and into Neisner's. We sat at the counter of 


that five and dime and talked like old friends. We laughed as easily as we lamented, and you confessed over pecan 


pie that you were engaged to a man you didn't love, a banker from some line of Boston nobility. A Cabot, or maybe 


a Chaffee. Either way, his parents were hosting a soirée to ring in the New Year, hence the dress. For my part, I 


shared more of myself than I could have imagined possible at that time. I didn't mention Vietnam, but I got the 


sense that you could see there was a war waging inside me. Still, your eyes offered no pity, and I loved you for it. 


After an hour or so, I excused myself to use the restroom. I remember consulting my reflection in the mirror. 


Wondering if I should kiss you, if I should tell you what I'd done from the cockpit of that bomber a week before, if I 


should return to the Smith & Wesson that waited for me. I decided, ultimately, that I was unworthy of the 


resuscitation this stranger in the teal ball gown had given me, and to turn my back on such sweet serendipity would 


be the real disgrace. On the way back to the counter, my heart thumped in my chest like an angry judge's gavel, and 


a future—our future—flickered in my mind. But when I reached the stools, you were gone. No phone number. No 


note. Nothing. As strangely as our union had begun, so too had it ended. I was devastated. I went back to Neisner's 


every day for a year, but I never saw you again. Ironically, the torture of your abandonment seemed to swallow my 


self-loathing, and the prospect of suicide was suddenly less appealing than the prospect of discovering what had 


happened in that restaurant. The truth is I never really stopped wondering. I'm an old man now, and only recently 


did I recount this story to someone for the first time, a friend from the VFW. He suggested I look for you on 


Facebook. I told him I didn't know anything about Facebook, and all I knew about you was your first name and that 


you had lived in Boston once. And even if by some miracle I happened upon your profile, I'm not sure I would 


recognize you. Time is cruel that way. This same friend has a particularly sentimental daughter. She's the one who 


led me here to Craigslist and these Missed Connections. But as I cast this virtual coin into the wishing well of the 


cosmos, it occurs to me, after a million what-ifs and a lifetime of lost sleep, that our connection wasn't missed at 


all. You see, in these intervening forty-two years I've lived a good life. I've loved a good woman. I've raised a good 


man. I've seen the world. And I've forgiven myself. And you were the source of all of it. You breathed your spirit 


into my lungs one rainy afternoon, and you can't possibly imagine my gratitude. I have hard days, too. My wife 


passed four years ago. My son, the year after. I cry a lot. Sometimes from the loneliness, sometimes I don't know 


why. Sometimes I can still smell the smoke over Hanoi. And then, a few dozen times a year, I'll receive a gift. The 


sky will glower, and the clouds will hide the sun, and the rain will begin to fall. And I'll remember. So wherever 


you've been, wherever you are, and wherever you're going, know this: you're with me still. Source: Sunny Skyz via Idealist Revolution -



Source: Sunny Skyz via Idealist Revolutio

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