January of 1971

To the late Simon Williamson, 

There is a quality that you possess that is unseen by others. At least, as far as I ‘d like to think. I like to think that I am the only one who can see it. The glint in your smile, gleaming white teeth against rosy pink cheeks. The ones that always come out whenever it snows. There is a sense of security I  feel by knowing I  was the last one to see your nose red from the cold, the harsh New York winter air eating away silently at your skin. Seeing you walk away from me, onto that plane that would take you farther than you’d ever been. Putting your life on the line to protect this “Great Country.” 

The Great Country that couldn’t even return your body to me. At least they were nice enough to send someone straight to our door, to let me know that you “died valiantly for the cause.” I  remember the soldier. He was one of your friends when you were here- Dale. He didn’t seem to be nearly as sad as I  was. To be frank, I  don’t care about the cause that they forced you into. The only thing that exists in my brain, that sinks like a stone in my head, is living in our empty house. Although it is “ours,” only I  live in it. 

I  constantly feel torn apart. I  never felt “all there,” except for when you stitched me together. Your gentle hands sewed every fallen limb and ripped extremity together. And when you died, your stitches disappeared too. They unraveled, and with them, so did I. Your absence ripped me to shreds, and the continuation of this terrible war tore shreds into particles. And looking at the rosy cheeks and noses of all the people around me, their warm breath rising into the sky like smoke, that tears particles into non-existence. Without you, I‘ve lost myself. In the mirror, my cold, pink face looks nothing like yours. I  don’t think I  recognize it. 

Your absence has made everything around me unidentifiable. I  am unrecognizable. The city that looked so bright now appears dull and dreary. The walls of every establishment are now filled with propaganda, supporting the killing of many innocent. For the sake of “eradicating communism” from our wonderful earth, to turn those believing in something else to believe in what they believe in. This isn’t the America that I  remember, or the life I  thought I‘d lead. Alone at 25, no children, no family. No husband. But how can I  be mad at you? I  guess it’s at Nixon. 

I  wish you could tell me what step I‘m supposed to take next. Writing letters to my dead husband probably won't end the war, or cure my depression either. Putting them into their envelope and licking it, but writing no address and putting no stamps doesn’t make me feel as good as I  thought it would. I  wish you were here so I  had someone to send this letter to. I  wish I  could just talk to you. 

Sincerely, 

Your loving wife, Loretta Williamson

March of 1971

To the late Simon Williamson, 

I  find myself writing to you once more, searching for the comfort that materializes when your face appears in my head as I  write. It’s been too long since I‘ve written to you, and your soft cheeks and sharp nose are now fuzzy, an amorphous substance floating about in my imagination. 

As I  confide in those around me, as I  create interactions with you in my head, I  realize that it is probably time for me to let go. I‘ve been too reliant on your memory, just as I  was during your life. You should not be the sole source of my happiness, as you were for so many years.

At my lowest point, I‘ve picked up my own needle and thread. I  must work from the bottom up, and I  must stitch together every wound and affliction that pains my soul. You shouldn’t have sewn me together- I  should have. And now, your memory fades. And I  must do it myself. I  feel myself disintegrating, and I  know that the needle must not pass through my thin skin without attaching, but it must hold strong and bring together the pieces of me. Just the pieces of me- not the ones of you. I  can stitch them together in a better way than you did. It may hurt more, as my bloodied hands cannot compare to your soft skin and carefully trimmed nails. Within my time, my nails have grown to a disgusting length, and they scratch and rip the fabric I  call skin. With time, my thread will meld into myself, and my stitches will not be ripped out. 

Someday I  will stand strong again, and you will be a distant memory. I  know that I  can live without you, and I  must. Life isn’t a fairy tale. I  lived life as a fairy tale. The princess who waits at the top of the tower, waiting for a man big and strong enough to do all of the work on his own. I  will not sit at the top and wait for your rescue. You are not coming. I  will find the exit on my own. 

The war rages on, as if your death attributed nothing to the “cause.” How many lives have been lost for this cause? How many women have gone through this excruciating process? I  can barely see the light at the end of this tunnel. 

Sincerely, 

Ms. Loretta Schenck 

August of 1971

8818 Victory Lane, New York, New York

To Simon Williamson, 

Today I  went out for my usual day, to visit the waitressing job that I  work almost every day to keep “our” apartment. I  decided to stop at the local convenience store, the one that has the cat sitting in the front window. You had always loved that one- it’s the only one I  visit.  I  stopped because I  needed some ointment for the cuts I  got last night. A very upset man threw his glass at me because I  wouldn’t give him my phone number, so he left a penny on the table after his party of 6 had left. A penny tip for their 40-dollar meal. 

It’s okay, though. Who needs income? Rent here is way too expensive, and I  think “our” apartment has become an inappropriate place for me to live anyway. Considering you have a two-story in the suburban outskirts of the city. It wasn’t too hard to find. It’s really nice. So is your car. 

I  figure you rarely come near the apartment- the lingering existence of me living here drives you away. Maybe moreso the worry of you being discovered. 

Everything in my life that I  tried to fix broke when I  saw you again. My stitches were baseless in their mere existence, so they ripped to shreds when you appeared. You come and fix me, then ruin me. The betrayal I  feel is just unimaginable. 

I‘m confused, to be frank. Did our unwavering love die when you did? It shouldn’t have.

You never died. And you never came back. 

I  always thought that I  married a strong, courageous, and truthful man. Instead, you are a conceited, deceitful, asshole.

How did you do it? How did you fake your death from your own wife? 

Enjoy your new, happy life, and your new, happy wife. 

Loretta Schenck

August of 1971

8818 Victory Lane, New York, New York

To Simon Williamson,

I  wish you would’ve told me yourself. That you were alive. I  don’t see how you could’ve thought. I  realize now that my own depressive life dragged you down. Constantly relying on you to be the sole glue of my soul wore you out. And of course, telling me would only tear me apart more. Who knows what I  would’ve done?

And so, I  find myself living in a hurricane of emotions. I  feel regret for being a poor enough wife to make you leave. I  feel anger for you abandoning me without a word. The grief I  felt after your death was immensely excruciating, and the gut-wrenching betrayal I  felt when I  saw you at the store with the cat in the window took my healing process five steps back.

With that, I  walk forward on an empty and barren path. At the end of the road, there is supposed to be some sort of light that heals my wounds and licks my cuts. That’s what the journey of fixing yourself is supposed to be, right? I  will stumble blindly on my dark path, searching for the light at the end of the tunnel. 

Maybe you could respond to my letters? I‘m sorry about the last one. I‘ve gotten all better now. I  just miss you

Loretta 

August of 1971

Sunset Boulevard, New York, New York

To Loretta Schenck, 

Please stop sending me letters. I  have a new family to take care of. I‘m sorry that my family doesn’t include you anymore, but I  just can’t handle you. I  can’t see you anymore. 

I  had Dale tell you I  was dead when I  was only discharged on injury. I‘m sorry I  left you so suddenly, but I  couldn’t live like that. 

I  meant it when I  said not to write me again. 

Simon

September of 1971

8818 Victory Lane, New York, New York

To Simon Williamson, 

I  know you don’t want to see me or talk to me or keep responding to my letters, but on my own, I‘ve grown quite lonely. My days consist of going to work and going home, and I  wish they included talking to you. Like they used to. Our relationship was so happy when I  was good. I‘m good now. We can be happy. We don’t even have to be husband and wife. I‘m just lonely

Please respond, even if it’s just once.

Loretta 

September of 1971

8818 Victory Lane, New York, New York

To Simon Williamson, 

It’s beginning to become cold outside again. Your face is blurry in my mind once more. I  reminisce and long to see your red cheeks and nose. I  want to see our warm breath rise together again. Please respond just once. We could have coffee sometime? 

Everything is becoming blurry in my head… I  need your help to make it clear again. I‘m so lonely. 

Please write me back,

Loretta 

October of 1971

8818 Victory Lane, New York, New York

To Simon Williamson…

Please write me back, I  need to see your face once more. 

October of 1971

8818 Victory Lane, New York, New York

To Simon Williamson…

I‘m sorry for everything I  did during our relationship. I  just want to see you again. Please write back. 

November of 1971

8818 Victory Lane, New York, New York

To Simon Williamson…

I‘m desperate. I  can’t let go of you- just give me some closure, at least. 

December of 1971

8818 Victory Lane, New York, New York

To Simon Williamson…

Please respond. Please. I‘m begging you. 

January of 1972

8818 Victory Lane, New York, New York

To Simon Williamson, 

I‘ve written you a few times in the past couple of months, but to no avail, you are yet to respond. I  don’t think you are going to. And so, I  write you one last letter. 

In the last year of my life, I  have stumbled through a deep, dark, wood. Entailed in it is a plethora of emotions which I  constantly begged to end, waiting for the “light at the end of the tunnel.” I  have seen no light. Only a shroud over my eyes, fog growing thicker, and preventing me from seeing any kind of light. I  am tired of being unable to arise from my bed, unable to see the sunlight upon me in the morning, unable to do anything other than the basic needs to live. 

I  find no joy in living anymore. Not without you. I  beg for an ounce of happiness in this dreary life, but since you left, everything has been gray. I  used to imagine a time when I  could live without you. When you died, I  imagined you were gone forever. I  could live as a new person, knowing I‘d never see you again. But I  now know that you exist and you chose to abandon me. Knowing that you can exist without me is nearly as painful as existing without you. 

And so, I  write my final words. I  served my final shift and the restaurant. I  changed my clothes for the last time, and drank my last coffee. And soon, I  will breathe my last breath, and see my last sight. All without you. And now, you will exist without me, as I  have existed without you. I  wonder how you’ll feel- sad? Happy? Free of burden? I  wonder if you’ve opened any of my letters. I  wonder if you ever even loved me. 

Will you miss me? ‘ve missed you. 

Loretta.