Letter to John and Willie On My Wedding Day

Dear John and Willie,

Today is my wedding day and I'm thinking of you. I didn't imagine I'd get choked up (I'm an engineer, fer chrissakes), but still my throat feels tight and it's a struggle to suppress the tears.

I'll bet you wondered if this day would ever arrive, if I would ever sync up with someone who wanted me the same way, and at the same time, that I wanted them. You would be happy to know that I found a woman named Donna who accepts my many faults and imperfections with love and grace, a woman for whom I care deeply.

This is an unusual moment for me, and my breast should be overflowing with emotion, but I'm not sure I know yet what I feel. Sometimes I think I've been robbed of that intensity, but the engineering side of me laughs in disdain, knowing better. Am I now not misty eyed thinking of you two?

Willie and John, Karen relayed your message of love to me, imbedded in a big hug. Thank you for your support from beyond the grave. While I'm sure I'm excited about the ceremony that begins in a few hours, and I know I've enjoyed the family visits of the last few days, still my joy is tempered somewhat by your absence. I know, I know, you couldn't help it. No one can stick around forever, waiting and wondering whether their last son would ever tie the knot. You picked your time, and you left when you were ready. I hope I have the strength someday to do the same.

But weddings are supposed to be happy occasions, so why am I alone in my house, eyes wet and fingers weak, sweaty in my aloha shirt because it's hot outside? In truth, I'm sure I must be happy. I smile frequently with Randy and Karen, Jim and Becky, Pam and Beth, Allison and Scott, Pat and Stephanie, Dave and April, and Donna's family, and soon, with my many friends and family from around the country. I laugh out loud when Patrick and I share the piano, me with my funky chord changes, he with an elitist ear and helpful eye that makes us all chuckle in the way he offers up suggestions.

Yes, I guess I must be happy now.

Perhaps I should tell you more about Donna, the source of this renewed hope in my soul. She's all the things you would have liked in "one of J.P.'s women." She's mentally sharp, with an infectious smile, a delightful shape, and a joie de vivre that will fill our future years with adventure and joy. Yes, you would really like this woman, and be proud of my choice (or was it she that chose me?) and would be thrilled with our every visit.

Maybe this is why it's difficult for me to write. You'll never meet this lovely woman, this lady with whom I plan to spend the rest of my life. You'll never hear the melody of Donna's voice. We'll never "talk story" about growing up in the east, or moving out west. She'll never have the chance to hear that dry laugh of John's, or Willie's sultry tones.

Even though you're dead and cremated, ashes buried, gone forever, I'll be thinking of you. Donna will attach your locket to her bouquet. I shall be wearing John's ring, studs, and cufflinks. We'll both be carrying your memories in our hearts as we walk up the aisle separately, and down the aisle together. And we'll be thinking too of Bruncle Chuck. I've decided his ring (your gift to me after his death) shall be my wedding band.

Protocol says we shouldn't mention the dead during a wedding service, so I can't tell the audience how much you mean to me, and how much I appreciate all you've done. I can't share with them the incredible love you showed me, both as a lost child of ten and an old man of 44. But I think my family will see it in my eyes, and that is a good thing.

If I could only believe in an afterlife, I could say that I see you looking down upon me now, with warm hearts and big smiles, holding hands and beaming love. Sadly, I know this isn't so. However, your warm hearts have been passed on to my family, your big smiles now appear on the faces of my friends, and Donna and I shall be holding hands and beaming love to one another as if you were still here.

In an hour I have to leave this temporarily empty house. Soon I shall don the tuxedo and checkered vest (you'd love that too) and ordinary shoes. Soon I must prepare to greet my bride in front of a library full of friends and family. Soon I start a new life, still a racer but no longer driving solo, still a composer but no longer lacking a muse, still a writer, but no longer struggling to find an editor, still a human being, but no longer alone.

If you were here today I know you would wish me luck, and tell me how proud you were, and express great happiness at this development of my life.

John and Willie, you are still here, here in my heart, here in my head, here in my soul, and I hear your every word. I love you two very much. Even though I'm crying my head off and dripping tears on the space bar, I'm happy now, and it's because of your love that I have come to this place. Thank you for enriching my life.

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