Dear David,

The year is winding to a close and I’m finally getting a quiet moment after an extremely busy and heartwrenching week. The House of Fielding is tranquil — Hugh’s curled up at my feet, and the others are asleep. Tosca and Allan are leaving today, so Hugh and I can send out 2005 quietly.

Your memorial on Wednesday was so very moving, but I couldn’t imagine it any other way. I think about it often, because there was so much going on. I’ll be thinking — and writing — about it for some time to come.

When I stood up in front to speak and looked around the room, I could see in every person’s face how much you meant to them. If you could bottle up the good thoughts that have come your way over the span of years and release them in one room, that’s what it felt like. Lots and lots and lots of love for you.

You, being the consummate Humble Guy, would probably be shaking your head at all the heartfelt praise. There was something hard-wired into your brain that wouldn’t let it swell, no matter what people said. Some sort of Ego Anti-Inflammatory Reflex. You didn’t even like having your picture taken, because you didn’t think you were photogenic. I think I proved you wrong, there, bashful man.

Everyone who spoke about you did so with great admiration and respect, but I knew there were others there, and others who could not attend, who felt the same way. It brought to mind the line in the Garrison Keillor poem, “Autumn”, which Chris read:

Believe that all that is essential is unseen…

I believe it. And you believed it, too. That’s how you lived your life — not through big events that showcased your many talents, but by everyday, unprompted kindness, and knowing what was important without mention.

Even before I met you, I had a sense of what kind of person you were. In your online profile, all you wrote in the “About Me” section was this little quote:

The best portion of a good man’s life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts,
Of kindness and of love.

- Wordsworth

That was you to a T. In the serious forums we shared, I saw it, and even in the silly forums, it was there. So I put it on the front of the memorial program, underneath your photo — my favourite picture of you. I told everyone that I took that photo shortly after the diagnosis, while you still had your thick tuft of hair. What I was too choked up to say, but I feel was implied: “See? You can’t keep a good man down.”

I also showed them the little card you made for me to meet me at JFK Airport for the very first time, October 1, 2004, with the limerick you wrote for me and a winking emoticon on the front. I told them how we had this winking thing between us from the beginning. We winked in crowds, in the plane, in the car — it spoke volumes. Whenever you felt low, I winked at you and made you smile. When we were stuck in the ER, waiting for a bed to be released, we winked at each other — it was our own form of communication. I told everyone how we winked at each other in the hospice when you could no longer speak and you were too weak to squeeze my hand. That was how I knew you could hear me.

Your friends made me laugh and cry and reminisce and reflect. Not so much on what I lost, but what I gained. I feel I’m a profoundly different person from knowing you, and clearly the entire room felt the same way. They expressed it in myriad ways, very eloquently. It takes courage to stand up in front of a room and say what’s in your heart, but many did. I addressed your co-workers, too, I even called them “chicken”, which got them up there… I tried to tell them what you told me on so many occasions: you worked with good people, and they became part of your family.

You would’ve been bursting with pride to see your cadets, dressed in their blues, so mature and articulate. They stood up and spoke about you with as much affection as you spoke to me about them. I was happy to meet so many of them, and put faces to their names. I know, in your eyes, the cadet program is the heart and soul of Civil Air Patrol. You put everything into being a mission pilot and a senior member, but you absolutely loved teaching aerospace to the youngsters and sharing your passion for flight. I told them that they were the kids you and I never had. You inspired more young people than you could ever know, and they are the most vibrant part of your legacy.

I wanted to thank them all for sharing you with me.

I didn’t have the privilege of knowing you for as long as the others in the room, but I told them that even after all the hardships we’d been through, and the hindsight of how limited our time was together, I’d do it all over again. People like you come along once in a lifetime. I’ll let Garrison Keillor say the rest:

Believe in the foolish vision that comes true,
Believe that all that is essential is unseen,
And for this lifetime I believe in you.

All of the lovers and the love they made:
Nothing that was between them was a mistake.
All that we did for love’s sake,
Is not wasted and will never fade.

Love from all of us,
Gail