There is no past that we can bring back by longing for it. There is only an eternally new now that builds and creates itself out of the best as the past withdraws.

-Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

-11-

In 24 hours or less, Harry Pearce can accomplish a lot. Stop bombs. Terrorists. Protect his country. Save the world. Even be knighted by her Majesty the Queen for all of his efforts. But now he sits there with pen in hand poised over a piece of paper, vainly trying to find the right words. Any words, in fact. And at this seemingly simple task, he fails. Spectacularly.

He takes for him, a conservative sip of scotch. His stomach is thankful for this; it has finally settled down, and he doesn't know if it's due to his drinking less this past 24 hours or the fact that Ruth is alive and well. He suspects the latter. But he is not sure that their relationship is alive and well. This is not exactly his domain; his failed marriage a testament to that. But it's Ruth, and he doesn't want this to go the way of all his other relationships, if he can even call them that.

So he sits. Looking for the words. He crumples the paper and goes over to the computer.

Ruth:

I wanted to write you a letter. Mostly because I think you would have liked to receive one, hopefully, from me. But I guess I'm not quite the Victorian you see me as or would like me to be because I fail at the simple art of letter writing. As such, please feel free to add that to my list of shortcomings—a list, I know, that is long and unfortunately growing exponentially by the day.

For that I am sorry. I'm sorry for each and and every one of these flaws. But most of all, I'm sorry for how I behaved the other day.

He pauses. He doesn't want to sound as if he is making excuses, but he needs her to understand, perhaps as much as he needs to understand as well. He goes on.

I cannot imagine my life without you in it. When you were "missing," everything stopped. Nothing mattered except finding you alive and well; I had to know that you were all right. I suppose I panicked as well. Panicked. You probably don't think the word a part of my vocabulary, do you? Yet it is when it concerns you. Especially where it concerns you. When you were gone, really gone those years ago, as painful as it was, I knew you were ok. Alive. And hopefully, well. It got me through those first awful days just knowing that. Seeing your empty desk—then strangers sitting where you should have been sitting, doing your job, and not half as well, I might add. But you were alive. And I drew strength from that.

Ruth, I can handle anything except losing my loved ones. Yet I have done a miserable job of communicating that simple fact to those I love. This includes of course, my daughter and my son. And now, I suspect, you. You do know that I love you, don't you? I thought you did. That's the trouble: I think that my feelings are plain, easy to read, and as such, no need to actually verbalise. But according to my daughter and my son, they are not as an obvious as I thought them to be. Not obvious at all. And so there is no mistake, Ruth, I love you. I love you. I love you. And if you allow me to, I will actually say it to you in person, over and over, so there will be no doubt as to the depth of my feeling for you. And you shall always be my love whether or not it's reciprocated by you.

Yes. I am a jealous man. But this is yet another limitation of mine, not yours. I will have to deal with my pettiness; you should not have to do so as well, my love.

And speaking of loved ones, I called Catherine the other day and asked for Graham's number. I reckon if you can work so hard at becoming "whole," then I must do no less and begin to repair, if possible, my failed relationship with him. Perhaps I will tell him that I love him, too. I don't remember ever telling him that, even when he was a young boy. You see, Ruth? Something as simple as telling your child that you love them, I failed at. But I intend to remedy that. You know why? Because you make me a better person, Ruth. You make me want to be a better person.

There are times, Ruth, that I feel my life to be a failure. I may be professionally successful (some might say), but where it really matters, I'm an abject failure. I failed Jane. I failed Catherine. And I failed Graham. And I know that I failed you too last night (or was it day?). The point is, I fell short, far short of what you deserve. But I shall endeavor to do better if you give me the chance.

Ruth: you inspire me to do better. Don't give up on me. I know that I am a work in progress and a not very good one at that, either. But I intend to do better. You make me want to be better because I love you. With every fibre of my limited being. I love you.

Harry.