Dear Tip,

I never told you that I love you, but I do. It took me thirty-seven years to admit that to myself, so don’t know that I will ever be able to tell you. At the time, you were such a bright spot in a young adult life that hadn’t had seen a lot to be joyful about. I was immature and troubled, yet you seemed to not notice that. You were magical in your adultness, combined with your childlike enthusiasm for pretty much every adventure and experience that was new and good in the world that surrounded us.

You cooked for me, charmed me, made me laugh, took me on adventures, shared movies with subtitles, traded riddles, let me experiment with your 35 mm camera, kept my feet warm, made love to me often and well, brought me daisies, played guitar for me, wrote me post cards from around the world, complimented me extravagantly, and made me so very happy, and—after a lifetime compressed into a half-year—broke my heart when your ex blew into town for a visit. We got back together on and off for several years afterward, and we still enjoyed each other, but I was guarded and untrusting, protecting my wounded pride and heart. I never knew during any of those years whether I was just a “rebound” girl after your broken engagement or how much of your heart was invested in our relationship. Eventually, you met and married someone else. And, it appears you are living happily ever after in that life.

Even though it seems silly, I would still like to know if you loved me, or even came close to loving me.

Debbie, age 59