Dear Stephanie

I found several versions of this letter from December 2006 to March 2010, but the differences were mostly cosmetic. This is pasted from the 2010 version.

Around St. Patrick´s day 1976, I left Tampa with my five year old daughter.  We returned to Mallorca where she was born.

Dear Stephanie. 

You always believed in something beyond the grave, and though we did not agree on this, I feel justified in writing now. There is so much I should have told you, so many things I should have expressed to you.  But you always preferred to leave things unsaid, especially if there was even the remotest possibility that discussion could lead to disagreement.  That was largely my fault I am sure, because of the few occasions early in our twenty-nine years together that I blew my stack.  You never forgot my throwing the typewriter across the living room–that it was not a laptop tells you how long ago that was–and I remember the act, but for the life of me cannot remember what that was about. 

I should try to keep track of the images i have been receiving these days and nights of illness.  being in this clinic almost in sight of the one where Stephanie died almost one year ago, i feel like we are in contact.  it-s crazy, but what can i say.
last night a glow of light illuminated a space in the room and i could see her as in a slide who, sometimes in scenes i knew, sometimes elsewhere, one with the Maharishi, probably in Switzerland.
later she was lying as in the grave, but with one eye open and i looked in.  first i saw myself, some years ago when wer first in love.  and then she took me in and began to look out of her eyes, or through her mind at many beautiful scenes she had witnessed.  a long view of a rocky coast line.  wooded hillsides, rivers running maybe in ohio, or wv, a real appreciation course in nature.
at one point she was on the couch in the living room watching a weird dream of mine from the night before> a cow on the way to slaughter in a horse/drawn cart is rescued by two sheep who heave her out of the cart while it was crossing over a bridge.  she laughed so that i tried to take her in my arms but it was vapor.
during the night sometime she came to me as lovely as she ever was and i wanted to tell her all the things i had not said those last days, but when i began to embrace her she changed into many different forms and ended up lying on our old bed with our dog lilly and her favorite cat Kali, both of whom had litters, and as it was those years ago, they nursed each others' babies - pups and kittens.
I think humans must all have the tendency to beatify loved ones lost.
Men seek the adulation of a woman, and the admiration of their fellow men.