In the Tears of My Saints

Chapter 6: Opening Letters

Dearest Esther,

I’ve chosen this next piece from a particularly depressing time in my life, a year or so later. I had just taken that big step and moved to a brand new town in a brand new country. Not only did I have to deal with the natural chaos of such a move while taking care of my very young and sometimes overly sensitive daughter, but I also had to deal with an unfortunate and ill timed bout of depression. As a consequence of these feelings, I retreated into my shell for a month or two, after which I began several stints in a local clinic that a colleague and good friend had suggested to me. I was, at the time, still very interested in The Story and therefore fascinated when I received several letters which seemed to be somehow connected. I wrote a bit about these letters, as well as included them in my journal. It is perhaps a little embarrassing to show you what this nonsense looked like, but here it is anyway.

12-3

Friends,

I have a new friend, and we talk a lot. I like it. Rosemary—that’s my new friend’s name—she is one of the few people I can talk to—really talk to. She never judges me or questions my honesty or interrupts my thought processes. She just listens. She sits back and listens. It’s nice—I really I like it—and I like her. I’m maybe thinking of possibly asking her to dinner. What do you think, friends? I don’t know. I mean, she probably wouldn’t go with me anyway. She always wants to keep things civil—or, like she says, professional. And maybe that’s for the best. I have been spending a lot of my free time at my local clinic, just helping out wherever I can. Because that’s where I met her—she works there. Has a doctorate in Psychology and Counseling. I love smart women; smart and confident, that’s what I like. It couldn’t hurt anything? Maybe I’ll do it anyway—women like to know that you care. What’s the worst she can do? Say no?

Someone sent me a group of letters. It wasn’t her. I thought it might be a first, but it wasn’t. They held them for me at the clinic. I’m really confused as to how they got there. There was no writing or anything on the envelopes, so they must have been hand-delivered. I was a little surprised at first that they’re so closely linked to The Story because I’ve been talking about it a lot recently, so someone must be trying to help me out in my search. They’re always asking me why I believe. Well, maybe . . . It is still too early to tell. I definitely have to include them here in this journal as possible proof of my story’s truth. I know that there could be hundreds of explanations for what happened, but when I read these letters . . . they remind me so much of The Story that I just can’t help myself. I never knew the people mentioned in the letters, but they must have known me, or at least about me. It seems weird that the moment I began writing down all of my evidence, these letters suddenly popped up out of nowhere from some unidentified source. Rosemary likes writing; she has a book and stuff. It’s about people and the way they think. She let me read it. I’m halfway through, and it’s really good. I wish she had sent them—the letters. Oh well, tell me what you think, friends.

                                                            The Letters

Letter number 1:

Dave,

Guess what!! It’s summer again. What does that mean?? Back to Africa!! Why?? Because there are so many unbelievably interesting things in Africa!!! Sand!! Sun!! Horrific food!!! That’s right, Dave, I’m back in Africa and loving it. With all of these incredible “gifts of life” to share and enjoy with the “people I love and cherish,” how could I not???

Sorry I couldn’t go to Harvard with you and the guys. Is that place as crazy as you imagined? Did you get into that party you were telling me about? Of course you did. That’s why I love you, man; you go anywhere and do anything you want. That’s not like me. I’m a coward. Well, at least where my dad is concerned. You know I never back down from a fight, but when it’s my dad, I get pushed straight over. It’s nuts, man. Africa is nuts—these trips are nuts! What does he honestly think he’ll find? He’s wasting my time, and he’s wasting his own time. Oh well…