Vet writes note to woman who saved his life

A Vietnam vet had resolved to kill himself on New Year's Eve, 1972.

UPDATE: A response has been posted from the woman's perspective, and it's written in the same style. It appears this was a beautiful creative writing exercise, but we're glad to have read it. We've got the response below the original article.

Instead, he met a woman, talked with her for an hour and then lost track of her. He forgot about suicide over the year he returned to the same place every day, hoping to see her again. 

That's the story written by an anonymous poster on a Boston Craigslist board for "Missed Connections." He says that the woman saved his life and although he lost track of her, married someone else, lost his wife and son, and still has nightmares about Hanoi, the anonymous woman is "with me still."

We've posted the whole note here in case it expires on Craigslist, but encourage you to read it there by clicking this link.

"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 soire?e 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."

"We met in the rain on the last day of 1972, the same day I resolved never to marry.

 

Only a week prior I had received a proposal of marriage. After a whirlwind week of fun and frolic, this day I learned the love of my life was already married. In my eyes this was the ultimate betrayal.

 

And so on this New Year's Eve, I resolved to never again subjugate myself to the pang of shame permeating the recesses of my soul. 

 

I walked around the familiar neighborhood for a few hours knowing I may never see it again. When I reached the waterfront, it began to rain, so I took refuge under the balcony of the Old State House. It was then that you interrupted my solace. You appeared pompous, yet aloof, completely absorbed in your unabashed self-confidence. 

 

You were wearing a natty, all too tight uniform that somehow looked more appropriate for a child whom had grown out of his favourite clothes, yet was all too reluctant to let them go. I'd never seen anything so absurd, save for the late sixties generation of hippies.

 

I had been crying, and you asked if I was okay. I said I'd been better and would accept your offer of a cup of coffee only if you would join me. Before you could answer I snatched

your hand and led you on a dash through Downtown Crossing and into Niesner's.

 

We sat at the counter of that five and dime and conversed like nervous adolescences . We laughed uneasily as we lamented, and I confessed over pecan pie that I was engaged to a man I now did not love, a banker from a line of Boston nobility, a Cabot. His parents were hosting a soire?e 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 know that he was already married. I got the sense that you, my new acquaintance could see there was a conflict of interest inside me. Still, your eyes offered no pity, and I loved you for it.

 

After an hour or so, you excused yourself to use the restroom. I remember consulting my conscience, wondering if I should kiss you. Or if I should tell you I had an airplane ticket dated for tomorrow that would take me 3000 miles away. I decided, ultimately, that I was unworthy of any hope that you, this stranger in the Pinocchio garb had given me, and to turn my back on such sweet serendipity.

 

As I fled Niesner's my imagined prison disappeared, and my heart thumped in my chest, knowing a sure-fire loss-of-opportunity had passed. A future -- our future -- flickered in my mind. When I reached the bus stop, I reconsidered, having deserted a stranger, surely leaving a broken heart, without so much as a phone number, nor a note. Nothing, but a memory.

 

As strangely as our union had begun, so too had it ended. I never returned to Niesner's. Ironically, the abandonment never seemed to enter my mind again. Discovering what had happened in that restaurant set me free.

 

I'm an old woman now, and only recently did a friend recount this story to me from an online post. I lied and told her I didn't known anything about this individual. Is my imagination simply running wild? Time is cruel that way.

 

As I have already spent this virtual coin of opportunity, the wishing well of life moves on. It occurs to me, after a million what-ifs and a lifetime without any lost sleep, that our connection wasn't missed at all.

 

You see, in these intervening forty-two years I've lived a good life. 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. Sometimes from the loneliness, sometimes I don't know why. Sometimes I can still smell the rain on the pavement all those years ago. 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, yet we shall never be together."