August 12, 2007 7:38 p.m.

Dear Walt,

Tragedy struck two months ago. I was walking through Denver on my way home and heard sirens. When I turned a corner I could see blood along the curb beneath the paramedics working frantically on a man lying at the edge of the sidewalk. A small crowd had gathered and the police were holding them back from the drama unfolding before them.

I crossed the narrow street to avoid the confusion, continuing my walk toward the lot where I had parked. But a haunting pall came over me when I saw the shoes of the man on the sidewalk.

I knew those shoes!

I stopped.

I froze.

I listened.

The police were taking statements from two young women on the street as the life-blood dripped over the curb and the paramedics suddenly slumped in horrible disappointment and exhaustion. They covered his face …

8:47 p.m. the same day

… I can’t write any more now! There’s just too much to say … too much to put in a letter without more thought, more reflection. I need to find just the right words to explain it all to him. Could he have any inkling of what I need to say, after a lifetime has passed?

How did I become so involved with his past?

Now as I sit in silence, staring at my computer, this unfinished letter mocks me more with every passing minute.

Should I call him instead? I haven’t actually heard Walt’s voice in decades. What if I choke on the phone?

I stare out the window of our Denver home. I can see the mountains to the west … not much snow on the peaks this time of year.

My first night in Denver had been so bleak and frightening. The bus had come in at night. I remember seeing snow on the road in the headlights over thirty years ago…

… Denver — January 1976

I was new in town. I was fourteen, confused and scared. I was a long way from Texas, a long way from the settled life I had known there — white porch rail, Saturday matinee movies with hot dogs and buttered popcorn, Sunday school the next morning and later Mama’s fried chicken on the dinner table — fading memories from what seemed another lifetime, another world.

It was bitter cold on the streets of Denver and my blanket lined denim jacket just didn’t cut it as the Colorado wind bit through my Texas winter coat. I had spent all but twenty dollars on the bus ticket, and this was the end of the line. The $20 hadn’t gone as far as I’d thought for grilled cheese sandwiches and Cokes in bus depot diners. I’d have to hitch from here, not a welcome thought with only my thin denim jacket between me and the cold while I dragged Daddy’s heavy old duffel bag. At least it wasn’t snowing again … yet.