David, I remember so many of our conversations, especially on Friday nights after work. We'd sit almost nose-to-nose as we discussed philosophy, books we were reading together like "Hanta Yo," "Atlas Shrugged," "Centennial," and so many others, politics (not so much, but sometimes), plans for remodeling whatever house we lived in (Henrydale and then Judy Lane), or the cottage. In spring, on Henrydale, I'd sit on the railroad ties you'd built to terrace the shrubs and plants at the front of our house, drawing charcoal pictures of a Cherokee Indian Brave or of You, my Dearest David, while waiting for you to come home from work. I have those charcoal drawings still. The Cherokee framed along with others I'd drawn. Your picture, so you, so free, wearing your blue chambray shirt and the gold cross around your neck... the rest so elemental of you, is not framed, though I keep it close and always will.
"Come up into the hills, O my love. Return! O lost and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again, as I first knew you in the timeless valley, where we shall feel ourselves anew, bedded on magic in the month of June. There was a place where all the sun went glistering in your hair, and from the hills could have put a finger on a star. Where is that day melted into one rich noise?"
Thomas Wolfe..."Look Homeward Angel."