A Man Named Dave

temperature. I erase the mere thought of fighting the chill and throwing on a jacket or scurrying away in search of shelter if the sky suddenly opened up and poured down rain. All I do is lean back on the wooden bench, take another sip, and soak in the purple overcast sky. I’m learning to simply be still.
    I still can’t stop myself from smiling. The last few days have been a whirlwind. Even now as I close my eyes, I can recapture only tiny, vibrant, burst-like fragments of a day that was taken from a fairy tale. Hours ago, I had stood with my back facing the Russian River – on the same ground that I had asked Marsha for her hand in marriage. With my son, Stephen, standing beside me as my best man, Marsha strolled down a red velvet runner as if she were an angel walking on water. We stood together beneath a white arch that was practically dripping with an array of vibrant flowers – bright orange lilies, turquoise-blue orchids, and porcelain white gardenias. I caressed Marsha’s trembling hand. My mind wandered as the minister spoke of the wonder of life, love, and commitment. All I could do was gaze out and make eye contact to those who were sharing our private ceremony. Mrs Woodworth – my fifth-grade English teacher who had told me when I was a child not to worry about my nervous stuttering because I was destined to communicate through writing – wiped the tears from her eyes as I gave her a slight bow. Then looking behind her, I smiled at my childhood friends from foster care, Paul Brazell and Dave Howard, and Dave’s lovely wife, Kelly.
    When the minister had asked if I would take Marsha’s hand, I leaned over and whispered into her ear part of a letter I had written her when we dated on the phone years ago. I then knelt down on one knee and placed the ring on Marsha’s delicate finger. Within moments, the minister presented Marsha and me to the world as Mr and Mrs Pelzer.
    Now opening my eyes, I can still feel my heart pound from the excitement, not only because I am committed to sharing my life with Marsha, but also with how everything has unfolded in my life. I am now happy, healthy, and no longer terrified of what the future may hold. My son is an outstanding, caring young man who has his entire life before him. I want for nothing. I have a terrific career, a small band of close friends, and a personal relationship with my God.
    With all the mistakes I’ve made, I am now my own person. One of the only links to my dark past is my father’s badge, which I keep to honor him. I flew with it on every mission while serving in the United States Air Force, and I carried it in my back pocket when I had the honor of meeting President Reagan. When I was selected as a torchbearer for the centennial Olympic games, I carried the badge. And as I stated, “I most certainly do!” when asked if I would take Marsha as my wife, Father’s sacred badge was in my tuxedo pocket.
    As a responsible adult, I am now old enough and wise enough to understand that no one’s life is perfect or even normal. Everyone has a past, everyone has issues. Life is what we make of it. I am only concerned about being a kind, humble person, a caring, guiding father, and a loving husband. With each and every day, I simply apply myself as best as I can.
    Above me, streaks of maroon and purple begin to spread across the horizon. A cold breeze strikes my face as my fingers find a piece of paper in my shirt pocket. Unfolding the paper, I replay every word in my mind before my eyes scan the letter, that I had in part whispered to Marsha only hours before:
     
    Flying at 28,000 feet westbound, somewhere over Nevada, thinking of you. It is at times extremely difficult for me to open up and talk to a woman like you. Until recently, I never had.
    Getting close to someone, anyone is very, very hard for me.
    It is easier, safer for me to watch from a distance. Sometimes I feel so lost. I’ve never been able to experience things like normal people; like being held as the sun goes down or feeling safe and “carefree” with a woman. A sensation I have yet to experience. So, I watch others and smile for their joy. Sometimes that’s enough. I’ll make eye contact, bow my head in respect, and stroll off feeling a little warmer inside, thinking I would never be able to share moments in time like other couples.
    Somehow lately I believe this is the springtime of my life. I’ve worked hard, planted many things, and soon they will blossom and grow before my eyes. I’m