Handwriting on the Heart

I never saw his handwriting.

I saw all of him physically, and a whole lot of his heart and soul, I think. But never his handwriting. Not a card, not a note, not a to-do list. He was careful that way, the same way he was careful with the e-mail address he used and with not putting his voice on his cellphone greeting. There were areas into which I wasn’t allowed. I’m not sure anyone is.

He gave me gifts—a bit of crockery for the kitchen. Books. A lovely bracelet. A music box that plays “Morning Has Broken,” selected because he liked the cover image and because he knew I was at my best in the morning. He gave me other things too: great discussions about history, politics, and literature. Acceptance. A lack of judgment about what I did or said or wanted. He gave me Waylon Jennings and the Rolling Stones. He tried to give me Robert E. Lee; however, a happily adopted daughter of the Commonwealth of Virginia with Yankee roots has her limits.

But as we went on, he couldn’t or wouldn’t give me what I most wanted–more of his time.

I initially accepted his lack of availability. That started to change when he got prostate cancer and two weeks passed before I learned how the surgery went. It changed more when I got God and learned that he had little use for organized religion, my faith in particular, and he chose to remind me of that frequently. We spent less and less time together. Ultimately, we agreed we were looking for different things, and it was time to end it amicably. It’s now been more than four years since we saw each other.

Still, the connection was hard to break. We talked when his mother died. I called one night after some beers when the band played a song, then hung up without leaving a message. He worried that I was hurt or in trouble, and left me three messages in twelve hours. Via e-mail, we agreed no more phone calls without messages. I decided, no more phone calls from me, period.

Earlier this year I succumbed to his annual e-mail reminder that the small tree frogs were peeping the way they had back in our halcyon spring of years ago. Not once but twice over the next few months, I messaged asking if we could get together–please, please. Initially, he said all the right things. But it never happened. He never said why; each time, the discussion just ended with “I can’t” and without “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” It hurt just as much, maybe more, as when we were actually seeing each other and he’d cancel plans.

And it was that hurt and pain, that sting, that forced me to finally read the handwriting on the wall. I blocked that careful e-mail address of his and its tempting messages. All I see now is a spamblocker advisory with the sender name and subject and that the message was automatically deleted. And I wish it were as easy to delete what he wrote on my heart.