An open letter....
The other day, I received an e-mail telling me my long-ago friend David Givens had died; David Givens who gave me his heart in the deep long ago when we were both young and exercising our intellects at college—our intellects and other capacities. David was good to me. I was trying to be serious about him, but I cannot say that I was good to him. I took him home to meet my family, I told him my 18 years of life story, I lived with him for about a year and I taught him how to drive. I'm sure I wasn't his only teacher, and he was not my only lover.
Still, the news of his death shocked me. The very morning I would hear that news I began the day mentally composing a note to him. It was a light-hearted, newsy composition, but one that included the truth that I do think of him and hope he is well and thriving. He was not well or thriving at that moment. My next thought was that such a note might actually cause more sadness than cheer and I went about my busy day.
That afternoon, I checked my e-mail. Memories came back to me, at first in a trickle and then in a cataract, and will, I suppose, for a little while. I'm not sure who to share these memories with since he is gone. I will share this open letter to David, delivered to his friends and complete with unretouched photos, in the hopes that his inimitable spirit, grim and hilarious by turns and simultaneously, can watch us laughing and crying over our loss while he is delivered from the “illusion” of this world we walk.
Dear David,
I know your friends call you “Dave” or “Grim” or “Mr. Sourdust” or "Iggy," but to me you are David. I met you at just the right time. You had so much to show me of the world I hadn't known before. There was the weekend when we attended the City/Poly game in Baltimore. From the taste of bacon spaghetti and hot chocolate with peppermint schnopps, I was in awe of the city and of your way of playing, always playing, with your friends.
I want you to know that I can still picture your tiny room on 2 West, Pinckney Hall at St. John's College. Your riot of posters, and little pictures and sayings pasted up all-over in perfect order makes me smile. The memory of all the music you played for me makes me sing. That gift you made me, an enormous box of cassettes made from those albums, followed me for years and years comforting me and reminding me of you. You said “I can't imagine you without your music.” I am grateful for that prescient sentiment.
I have a photograph of you and Todd. Two young and beautiful men stand in that hall and smile at the camera, both pointing. I can hear your voice saying “oooooh” in mock accusation and warning of the doom about to befall the photographer. I keep that picture well protected so I can remember the bright fortunes of my youth.
I want you to know I can still make biscuits and take a shower in 12 minutes flat and that I would still shriek if you poured cold water on me in the middle of said shower. Our foolish race from that apartment all the way to Annapolis in my big boat of a car makes a great story, but it's the slower rides through the forest just dawning its dogwood lace that I hold in my heart. Was it then you invented hawk flavored ice cream and whiskey mouse or later? Were you inspired by those cayenne flavored cookies you loved?
There is so much more to thank you for: visits to the Owl Bar in the Belvedere hotel, The Madison, The Charles, those delicious chocolates you brought home from Belgium, the way the sea on cape cod reminded me of your blue eyes and how I collected muscle shells for years just to have that blue at hand, walking in the snow in Oella, steak tartar and eating crabs with gift meat seasoned well with old bay. From this distance, I still admire the way you were always able to gather a group of friends around and organize the elaborate storytelling of D&D, keeping everyone enthralled for hours and weeks on end. I will imagine you, in the heaven of your choosing, continuing the saga. May your spirit rest, dear friend of my youth.
In peace and light,
Ellen (A.K.A. PPFMB)
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