Dear Susan:

If you would allow me, I’d like to tell you about four of the losses that I’ve experienced in my life.

(Else, feel free to tear or toss this letter now.)

The first that I can remember occurred in the first grade. I had a friend named Paul. It’s been a minute since I was in the first grade, so to be honest, the only thing I can specifically tell you about Paul — besides that he was my friend and we played together every day — was that he had light, red-brown wavy hair and he was always smiling. That’s the picture of him I carry around in my head, all these years later, his plaid shirt, his shock of hair, and his smile.

In first grade, my homeroom teacher was Ms. Nutt — yeah, everybody got a kick out of that. Plus she was Australian, plus she was a former airline flight attendant — all of which I thought was really cool, even back then. I loved Ms. Nutt. Everybody loved Ms. Nutt.  That morning at school, I remember her seeing her in the hallway outside our classroom, crying. Needless to say, I’d never seen a teacher crying at school before and I knew I didn’t want to know what was going on.

Nowadays, schools have all kinds of “protocols” and maybe they did back then too, so it surprised me when she said what she said —That Paul was hit by a car and killed a block away from school. I knew exactly where, too, because I’d see him cross the street at the big intersection that you could see from the playground. I thought that if I just walked to the end of the hall and looked out the fence I could probably see everything happening in real time. School was just about to start. I didn’t though.

I’m sure that this was the first death that had ever touched me directly. My parents were too cheap and too poor to even get us a pet, so I’d never even had a goldfish die. To be completely honest, I’m telling you what I remember of that time but I don’t remember how I felt, or what I felt, at that moment. I can tell you now though that I can see all of that happening as clearly as if I were watching it on television. I’m sure not a year has gone by that I haven’t thought about it at least once. What I think of is, —What would Paul be doing right now, if that never happened?

(He’d probably be an insurance salesman and annoying and I wouldn’t want to talk to him. But you never know. I’m sure someone somewhere thinks that about me, too.)

The second one I still try not to think about too much. This was in college. A close friend of mine was murdered — in a horrific, gruesome way. Providing any more detail than that would be inappropriate. My friend called me the same afternoon to ask me how I was doing. I said —I’m great, how are you? Obviously, I hadn’t heard yet. My roommate was annoyingly polite and diplomatic, always. He told me what happened, without any of the details that would go on to horrify and haunt me. I refused to believe, told him he was a sick mother-fucker for telling such a joke, and hung up.

She was a happy person too. I always remember her laughing and smiling. She would always be the first person to tell you to cheer up, that everything would be all right. Which was annoying. We had some stupid fight about some stupid something, and it was finals, so when I saw her in the Yard — that last time I ever saw or spoke to her — I was rude. The other thing about this friendship is that I don’t think anyone really knew how close we were. We had different friend groups that didn’t overlap, though we were friends individually. My friend who called me knew, maybe one or two other people.

Let’s see. I quickly ended the three year relationship I was in, even though we hadn’t had any problems except the usual ones people dating at this age have. I began drinking heavily and hardly left my room. Since no one knew we were close, no one thought to console me. I didn’t have the sense to get grief counseling, of course, of course. And because I’d broken up with my girlfriend, breaking her heart, all our friends took sides — mostly hers. So I had essentially lost all of our mutual friends. Because of the drinking, I don’t remember much of that year.

I saw a TV show where I guy — also dealing with trauma — had a room that glowed green from all the booze bottles he’d stash away there. I had that room too.

They say that drinking doesn’t solve anything but, for me, I think it eventually did wash away all the memories and feelings I had about that incident. Eventually I stopped drinking because I didn’t need it to forget anymore — it was gone. My head was as clear and sparkling as a freshly washed glass bottle. Something good did come out of this though. (And I’m not going to tell you about it, because that is another letter, and another answer to another issue.) I actually, finally, began writing a short film about the aftermath of this event. That’s my way of dealing — of turning this pain into a pearl.

So you know, the “good thing that came out of that” that I just mentioned above? That too became a loss, a trauma — though one entirely of my own making. In short, I met a girl — a great girl — and messed it up. I’ve read that rather than exorcise our demons we should befriend them. No, I think we should tame them like dogs, make them do tricks — stand on their hind legs on balls and balance balloons on their noses. I think we should teach them to go to the corner store, pick up a sick pack, and bring back the change. I think we should teach them to play dead. I don’t know.

The fourth loss, I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m ready to talk about yet.

I thought that by writing about the four primary losses in my life that I would arrive at something profound to say about loss. (Oh — I say “primary losses” because I can think of 6, 8, 12 more things right off the top of my head that I could add to this list — couldn’t we all though?) A childhood friend, a college comrade, a first love. Well first, they’re gone. Then, the part of our lives we’ve attached to them is gone. Third, the love is gone. We know we don’t get them back. Do we get ourselves back? Do we get the love back?

I started a new writing project recently. It was very dark. I wrote some things after being hurt that I don’t believe, but they helped extract the venom. I wrote “we love people to lose ourselves,” either right away or eventually. I wrote “we can’t beat love but love can sure beat us.” I wrote a bunch of stuff like that. There’s another quote — I love quotes — about “being stronger in the broken places,” which I think is true at least strictly from an orthopedic point of view. (Getting hurt is sure great for sparking quotes.) That last one is a good one.

I guess I can’t generalize. I can only say how I think these things have changed me — or at least have tried to change me. Which would be: I’ve tried to make something of my life, because I’ve been given one that hasn’t been cut short (so far). I’ve tried to be a better friend, because being a lousy friend is worse than not bothering. I’ve tried to think of every love as a “first love,” an undeserved gift, to be protected as best you are able. (I am just literally crying right now.)

So do we get ourselves back? No, I don’t think we do. We shouldn’t. It’s the new self that really matters, the self after the loss, if we’ve truly faced it. Do we get the love back? Yes, and no. We get love, not the same love, new love, but it’s not for us to keep — it’s for us to give. To give, and give, and give. Love kept is love killed. Breathe it in and breathe it out. Let it give you some life then let it turn the air. Let it give someone else life too.

I’m sure I could ramble on for another couple of pages but I’m going to end abruptly on what seems like a “high note.” Sorry that it took me 4 pages to get 1 paragraph that may have any value. Emphasis on “may.” You are certainly not alone. The Republic of Loss has open borders, I’m told. May you find happiness and peace, and little bit of contentment each and every day.

Very sincerely yours: David Aaron

(A part of the More Love Letters project.)