Lucas, we both know how you sometimes procrastinate about important things. Please don’t put off doing something about the draft. Please don’t wait until it’s too late.

Robin

My hands are trembling. I’m shattered. If someone suddenly appeared out of nowhere and swung a two-by-four into my face, I couldn’t feel more blindsided. Chris has written about the Dear John letters some of the guys in his company have gotten. As if it isn’t horrible enough to get wrenched out of your life and shipped to a hellish jungle with a thousand ways to die, guys get letters from girlfriends saying they’ve met someone new. One guy got a Dear John letter from his wife after only three weeks.

The postmark on Robin’s letter is July 5. It took four days to get here. She’s been gone almost two weeks, and I’ve written at least a dozen letters to her. In April, when her parents took her to Florida for Easter vacation, I received a long Shalimar-scented letter on lavender paper every day. Each one signed With All My Love, Robin.

I bring the light-blue stationery close, but there’s not the slightest hint of perfume. And it’s signed simply Robin. Sounds like she began having doubts long before she left for camp. She once told me that I had blind spots, things that I didn’t see that were obvious to her. I know that’s true, but in this case, is the problem that I haven’t been seeing or that Robin’s been hiding her feelings?

What does it matter now? My heart’s deflated and my eyes are watery. Guess you don’t have to be in Vietnam to receive a devastating Dear John letter. I squeeze the tears away with my thumb and forefinger. This is so unexpected, so out of the blue. I’m crushed, stunned by her ambivalence. Yes, the trip to Maine was a bummer, but I didn’t think it was that bad. And it’s not like this is the first, or even second, time Robin’s voiced discomfort with my “lifestyle” and beliefs. It’s not new to her. Why did she have to wait until she went away to share all these feelings? Was she afraid to tell me face-to-face? That’s so unlike her.

I sit back, stare at the ceiling, feel my eyes fill with tears again. Let’s be honest. She did share her feelings. The time she told me about some river in Ohio that was so polluted it had caught fire a dozen times, and I insisted that was impossible. The next day she showed me the clipping from the newspaper. For several days after that she was remote and uncommunicative. I knew she was waiting for me to apologize. Why didn’t I?