Dear _______,

Well I’ll be! – out of the blur of time. When did we last even hear of one another – June of eighth grade? Sixty-one years – yikes. Just tallying gives me vertigo.

Scrolling the Web, you bumped into my name – those two l’s – so thought why not. In an old age home – correction, “retirement community” – a widower – four kids, one a “basket case”? What did you do with your life, you didn’t say – rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief?

Our desks were close but not we. You were from somewhere else, the next village. Our parents didn’t socialize. So many childhood “friendships” are dictated by social considerations. We like those we ought to – to please our grown-ups – or those we oughtn’t – to make a point.

You weren’t Jewish, were you? I’m pretty sure we had none in our school. If we did, they kept their heads down. Jews were worse than Catholics. Catholics were… well, no one ever said exactly. Not our sort. Bigotry was transmitted in sighs and gestures – if you were polite. You never spoke ill of a person – that was bad form – but what you thought of them, that was your business – “behind closed doors.” “Behind closed doors,” in my parents’ house, afforded delicious license. How you seemed was what counted, not who you were. I liked no sound better than that door click. Such inviolable quarantine came in handy in seventh, eighth grade, when one’s fingers started fumbling beneath one’s belt.

What have I been up to? Do you really want to know? Me too. After six million or so scribbled words – half published, half private – I’ve only the dimmest idea. We live our lives as if we knew what we were doing – recount our stories as if they made sense. In the old days, maybe, you did what was expected – no choice unless you were a hero (or derelict) – but today? My confusion was compounded by my dad’s dying when I was sixteen – you probably heard about that – a big guy locally – and kerplunk he was gone. Welcome to the game of life – with no instructions – not even a picture atop the jigsaw puzzle box to show your desired outcome. And no one to consult. And a mandate never to exhibit doubt.

My ignorance was the making of me. I had to keep trying on selves to find one that fit. Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief! Composer, pundit, poet, publisher, politico, penitent – and that’s just the p’s! Maybe love would issue my marching orders – or marriage – or family – or profession – or… My body has the same problem: only the loosest fitting clothes accommodate its curves.

I ended up where you find me – scribbling – extruding my innards for strangers’ entertainment. A worthwhile activity? Depends how you measure. I do it because it’s fun and invites interlocutors with whom I might tango further. Why does the spider trap and enwrap flies? To eat, protect themselves, or for the thrill of the chase?

I write, too, to stay sane. The turbulence and turpitude of our moment make my craft feel a dinghy in a hurricane. I hold on for dear life, not to drown. Twice (so far) I’ve gone nuts. A shapely sentence supplies a momentary delusion of order. I grip my lines not to tip overboard. (A tortured simile, but hey.)

Enough about me. What about your life? That “basket case” feels tragic – and that you should lead with that, after sixty-six years! I love hearing people’s stories, though mostly they’re reticent, you’ve got to pry. Not me. I pry, pray, prose (more p’s).