March 30th, 1977

My dear,

I’m not sure when this will reach you, but by the time it does, you will probably be aware my absence over the last week hasn’t been just another bender. You always told me to take some time away, though I always thought it was a bit like expecting a dog not to be loyal.

My thoughts had become so self-destructive in the last few months I decided some time without me, and our seemingly inevitable infernos of arguments, might be better for you and Mark.

I’m sorry I didn’t make it to Christmas, but I’m glad I was there for Mark’s birthday. He looked like he had a good time, though I couldn’t ignore that look in his eye. The distrust and disappointment in his baby blues when he looked at me, the one that turned back to a gleam when his mother came into sight. Maybe he knew I was leaving before you or I did. Maybe he never believed I was really there to begin with. He’s intuitive, our kid. He takes after you – a trend I can only hope continues.

I am writing because I don’t think I could bear to hear your voice right now – not with all the things you hide behind your words. You said to leave for a while but I never know if you mean more than the things you say. The way your pain and resentment towards me take indifference and make it poison. The way I fulfil your lowest expectations, time and time again. I am writing to you because of this, but also because I don’t want these words to be lost in time. I hope this letter might serve as your memory instead of your recollection of a conversation on the telephone, or an argument had in doorways. I hope the words on this page will not be skewed or corrupted by time like we will surely be. I write because if this is your memory, then you can keep it folded in your jacket pocket or throw it onto the fire as you please, and when it’s gone, it is gone, and that is all.

I have arrived in America. New York City, to be more specific, just like I always spoke about. This city is everything they say it is and more. I’m staying in Chelsea – right in the heart of it all. The wind is freezing, the streets are filthy, and the people are hard, yet the city has a warmth to it. Nobody ends up here by chance; it’s a city that takes you in – swallows you whole. It takes your body, your mind and your soul but it gives back something that’s so much more. If you have a dream, it will be tested. Nobody rides for free in New York City. I hope to really, truly feel this place before I have to leave, because anything less would be a tragic waste.

A man offered to sell me his car yesterday, and with it, a cascade of thoughts about driving across this country began flooding my mind. The idea of moving across this country in such an unhindered and unabridged way is too exciting to ignore.

Regardless, I need you to know this is not forever. You and Mark are my world and I will return home someday; I just needed to go into orbit for a while. I will continue to write until I can speak words to you again.

Always yours,

Dylan Ward

PS: Keep his fingers on that keyboard. I know he wasn’t too excited when he opened it, but I think he’s got an ear for it.