My memoir did not begin with a life, but a thought, an idea. It began in a dark room with a single sheet of lined paper torn from a coil ring notebook, and will end when the last eyes read the last word on the last page in the last book before it is destroyed; I was never good with fallacy so lets just say this all happened.
He spoke to me, and I heard his letter, years after my eyes were closed for good. It read:
“When a life is taken from beneath your hands, and through living we realize it is a puzzle, though we built strong the edges strong and sturdy better able to see the picture, a destiny, a guideline, a structure and meaning, we are destined to play out that story. When that life is centered built from the inside out it becomes the puzzle of life to which no piece will ever fit, a collage, we are simply those who have pieced together our own lives. ‘Years will pass and I with this summer will fade to the browns and routine of autumn to winter’ it is too late for me to change my puzzle, but learning we can all be thankful for what you allowed us to see in the picture we may have overlooked.”
If these memoirs were true they were never to be written, and truthfully I would not have wanted them written. I neither conceived nor authorized the invasion yet unknowingly built the beautiful foundation that they could not let die with me. If I truly was nothing before it all began, and remain still as nothing when it is all done, let these words stand as a testament to which we could have become. This is not a lesson in survival nor death but ever learning even when we believe we are the ones who teach.