Letter: The Only One for Me

There were occasions in ancient history – and in mythology – when a beautiful daughter of a prominent leader was given in marriage to the one whose youthful courage and bravery and valor were demonstrated in some heroic deed, like the taking of a city in battle, or the defeating of a giant, like Goliath for example.

I was none of those.

Courage, bravery, and valor had nothing to do with the reason why I picked up the phone that day now over 50 years ago, and proceeded to fumble my way through an invitation to see if, somehow, I mean if she wasn’t busy or anything, you know like studying for an exam, or writing a paper, or whatever a young, and quite beautiful, coed does on a university campus on a Friday night.

As a matter of fact, and now a half-century later I admit with a great deal of chagrin, I called her because it was either have a date or pay a fine. 

‘Mandatory date socials’ my senior frat brothers explained to us shy incoming freshmen.

I cannot call her today. 

I cannot share with her the highlights of having been out and about, conquering cities, defeating giants.

Not that there aren’t battles to fight, but I cannot share my exploits of the day because she is not here to ask.

This past March 19, the first day of spring, heralding the promise of yet another trip to her favorite place – tulips upon tulips as far as the eye can see – she lost her battle with cancer.

And I’ll never, ever, regret that phone call.