The sound of a departing train echoed through Don’s ears. It reinforced the notion that everyone in Don’s life, at some point, abandoned him, leaving him the weathered man he has become. Don was convinced the young man from the train station was his son. He was convinced that the boy in the car was his son. He was also convinced that every young man he saw that day was secretly his son.
Upon returning home he noticed Winston waiting for him outside.
“Don, I have examined the handwriting in both of the letters; I don’t think Sherry wrote the first letter. The characters are inconsistent. I think Sherry’s letter was just supposed to be ironic in it being pink because now she too is an ex-lover,” exclaimed Winston.
“I don’t want you to play detective anymore, Winston. Go home and leave me alone,” Don replied in a low, monotone voice.
“But Don, I think I’m really on to…”
“Forget it, Winston,” Don interrupted. “I can’t take it anymore. It’s making me feel sick. I just scared the crap out of some kid today, I made this kid run away from me,” Don said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, I saw this kid at the airport yesterday, and then I saw him again outside Carlitos after you left this afternoon.”
“Why didn’t you say something sooner, what happened?” Winston questioned eagerly.
“He had a pink ribbon tied on his bag,” Don muttered. “I asked if he thought I was his father and he called me fucking crazy and ran away.”
“Well… What do you think? Did he look like you? I mean, that is pretty ironic that he had a pink ribbon on his bag,” Winston insisted.
“I don’t know, Winston; you’re the sleuth here, remember. I’m not sure about anything anymore.”
“What, you want to just go home and forget somewhere out there you have a son. How can you carry the burden of never finding your son?” questioned Winston.
“Look Winston, I’m done playing games, ok? I don’t have a son.”
“Don, there is nothing in this world more precious than the love for your child,” Winston persisted.
Don didn’t have a response for Winston. He just stood silently, hiding behind his sunglasses, the way he has hid from love all his life. He knew that there was merit to what insight Winston had offered him. But he couldn’t bear the thought of a never-ending search to which he may never find resolution, so he preferred to believe he had no son.
Donny spent the next several days waiting for a knock at his door. He began wasting away in thought, dipping in and out of memories. His dreams became nightmares of the past. Days turned into weeks, fading into months, which eventually became years, years of a sad, lonely, deteriorating Don Johnston.
He wandered aimlessly, assuming every twenty-something year old was his son. He confronted young men constantly, asking them if they had a father. Usually the boys would just walk away, mumbling the word lunatic under their breath. But every now and then his confrontations resulted in black eyes, with no Sun Green to bandage his bruises.
After years no pink letters, Don had just about given up. Winston had only pestered him from time to time, but knew not to press too hard because he could see Don was falling apart. The emptiness Don felt in his heart put an overwhelming strain on his mental health. He spent his days on an uninviting red leather couch, listening to the CD Winston had made for his trip. Don lay, starring at the blank television screen when he was startled by the clank of the mail slot. A pink envelope slipped through and fell to the floor. Don’s eyes locked on the pale pink envelope. As he sat up his heart began to flutter. He walked cautiously toward the front door and stood overtop of the letter, hesitant to pick it up. His nerves started to curdle in his stomach and his muscles tensed.
The small fragments of hope he had stowed deep at the bottom of his heart streamed through his veins. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, and he felt faint. He took a deep breath and bent down to pick it up. Standing with the letter grasped tightly in his hand he walked to the couch and sat down. Don placed the letter on the coffee table in front of him, with the red ink staring back at him. He sat, slightly immobile, with a dull, under-whelmed look on his face. After a few minutes passed he took a deep breath and took the letter into his hands. Don stared at the red writing on the front, comparing it to his memories of the past two letters. “Here we go,” he said in a desperate sigh.
He gently slid an envelope cutter across the top, revealing a note on rose-colored paper resting inside. Don took another deep breath before he began to read.
Dear Don,
I have come to terms with your absence from my life. I have spent years searching for something to fill the void you have left me. I have grown to realize that sometimes the simplest encounters can spiral into great philosophical acceptance of events that have occurred in the past. If you haven’t already pieced the puzzle together, this is your son. I want to thank you for the sandwich, and the words of advice that you bestowed upon me during the brief time in which our paths crossed. I had spent the early part of my life in a state of constant curiosity as to who you were, what you thought about, what you looked like, and so on. I also spent a long time loathing the very thought of you. It was not until recently that my mother told me about the letters she sent you. I also was unaware at the time of our meeting that you didn’t know you had a son. With knowing that and meeting you I was put at peace. I spent the rest of that summer soul searching, and through everyone I met, not a single person could top what you said to me.
“The past is gone, I know that. The future isn’t here yet, whatever it’s going to be. So, all there is, is this. The present. That’s it.” Although seemingly so simple, it has become more or less a motto by which I live. I no longer feel compelled to dwell on the past, nor do I feel I should have any dislike towards you. But I also do not necessarily desire a rekindling father-son relationship, for that would feel phony and forced. I simply would like the thank you for being a wonderful father in the brief time we had together. I also would like to apologize for saying you’re fucked up, even though everyone is fucked up in his or her own uniquely fashioned way. It is part of the threads that weave us into the being we are. And with that I would like to leave you with some of my own words of wisdom; “Life is a collage of chance meetings, everyone you stumble upon leaves their mark.” Thank you for the mark you have left on me.
The edges of Donny’s lips began to curl, outstretching toward his eyes. For the first time in years his face hosted a smile, although meek, it was all that Don needed to let the insanity that has been haunting his present subside.