Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
Hi sweetie,
This summer marks our 20th Anniversary. Who would have thought we'd be together this long, through so many changes? I’m pretty sure you realize how much you mean to me, but - dammit - I don't say it enough. Especially recently, during all the changes we’re going through.
I just wanted to take a moment to let you know how special you are.
I still remember the day we first met. I was just a kid wearing a baseball uniform about two sizes too large for me. My game had been rained out, and a friend introduced me to you. The three of us sat at his kitchen table, eating bologna and cheese, and you first taught me some dice had more than six faces. You showed me words I had never known. Words like Levitation, Gaseous Form, and even Cleric.
You fomented a love of reading that continues to this day. You grabbed me by the hand and showed me treasure after treasure. Our flirting was harmless at first - The Hobbit, The Black Cauldron, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. I fumbled self-consciously as I chased you from bookshelf to bookshelf, amazed as the secrets you were revealing.
Later, as we matured, you revealed to me that some of the very best stories really had happened. You kindled in me a passion for history. You showed me fascinating people - Alexander, Hannibal, Leonidas, Theodoric, Simon de Montfort, Llewellyn Fawr, James Douglas. Never once did you complain when I spurned you for them. You knew I would be back, eventually, and I would be a better man for our time apart.
And come back I did. We would spend a few months together before once more I would find myself interested in some other pretty face. During those early years of college it was Philosophy. Do you remember her? Jeesh, I’m a bit embarrassed now about how hard I fell despite how little I knew about her. You let that elusive lady show me Socrates, his pupil Plato, and then his pupil Aristotle. You let her and I celebrate with Marcus Aurelius and Augustine. Even when we started partying with Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, and Heine – you never arched an eyebrow.
Then you showed me the joy of creating. You – more than anyone - encouraged me to write. When the house was empty and the only light was the dim illumination of a computer monitor, you were always there with a word of advice or a few phrases from one of our past exploits. You stood by me when everyone else seemed enwrapped in their own frenetic lives.
Yet the most important gift you ever gave me – more even than the admiration of history or philosophy, the love or reading or the passion for writing – was the friendships you enabled. You introduced me to some wonderful people. People, I must admit, I probably never would have known were it not for you. I was in different circles back then, I ran with different crowds. I was concentrating on football or baseball, other girls, and beer. Always beer. You were as persistent as you were patient. You bided your time, knowing that sometimes the strongest relationships are those that appear placid on the surface. And, of course, you were correct. Those folks you introduced to me remain my most valued friends even now.
When I finally graduated college I thought we were over. I had been around, seen quite a few interesting ladies. I viewed our relationship more as “puppy love” than any lasting bond. People would laugh when they found out you and I had been a couple. Most of them, it turns out, had dated you – but their relationships with you never eclipsed a burst of adolescent romance. I was never jealous – on the contrary, I wish they had had more time to learn how fascinating a woman you are.
We had something special, you and I. Even when I was feigning ignorance of who you were, I still knew one day we would be together again. I would find myself migrating, ever so slyly, toward a certain section in the bookstore just to see your face. I’d manage to catch a movie that’d remind me of some of the adventures we had together; the urge to call old friends and arrange a reunion was always there.
I’m embarrassed to say that a few times a year I would rummage through my storage boxes above the garage just to find a couple old dice, and I’d watch a ballgame while idly rolling them on the coffee table. Nostalgia would wash over me like a wave.
Yet we grew apart as I grew older. Things had changed.
I had changed. I had a job, school loans, and more school loans. Shortly thereafter I had a kid, then another, and even one more on the way. I wanted to talk to you – truly, I did. But it was hard. There was never enough time, schedules never seemed to work. I was afraid; I was sure you would not be the same woman you had been when we last parted ways. And I was right.
You had changed, too. In the old days you really liked to talk a lot. You could spend hours discussing a subject that you now can describe in a couple sentences. Though I love the fact you don’t confuse me as much nowadays, the romantic in me misses your long-winded explanations. You’ve always been beautiful, but now you’ve garnered an aura of sophistication. You’re not nearly as contradictory or confusing as you once were.
You’re as vibrant and full of life as you’ve ever been.
I’m always amazed at how amazing you are. You infect people with imagination and creativity; you nurture friendships and encourage discussion. In this world of cell phones and video games you still manage to show people that sometimes the simplest pursuits are best – reading, writing, talking, playing.
I just wanted to let you know that – through it all – I’ve never stopped needing you. I may have been away for weeks, months, years at a time. But not once was I able to forget about you, though – sadly enough – I often tried.
A few years ago we came together again. Someone told me they had seen you in the bookstore. You looked different, they had said. I wanted to see you so badly – I remember stopping by the store on the way home from work just to see how you had changed. Shortly thereafter you encouraged me to call our other dear, old friends.
I’m not so modest to not say how proud I am that all of us now get together on a regular basis. Sure, we’ve all put on a few pounds; we have facial hair. We used to play on the playground, in the library, or huddled around a coffee table in our parents’ houses. Now we play in hotel conference rooms or large, finished basements. We used to drink iced tea or soda. Now we drink beer – er, ale.
Just last session you had us all laughing. Remember how those frost worms nearly killed the entire party? Poor Moril was running for the Rope Trick like his hair was on fire, and I thought Matt was going to throw his dice against the wall. That green dragon certainly had them quaking. Those magnificent monsters seem to grow stronger by the year, don’t they? In the end, all of them managed to work together and finish what they had set out to do. We’re a good team, you and I and all of our friends.
Come to think of it - nothing’s really changed at all, has it?
Here’s hoping for another twenty years,
Destan
This summer marks our 20th Anniversary. Who would have thought we'd be together this long, through so many changes? I’m pretty sure you realize how much you mean to me, but - dammit - I don't say it enough. Especially recently, during all the changes we’re going through.
I just wanted to take a moment to let you know how special you are.
I still remember the day we first met. I was just a kid wearing a baseball uniform about two sizes too large for me. My game had been rained out, and a friend introduced me to you. The three of us sat at his kitchen table, eating bologna and cheese, and you first taught me some dice had more than six faces. You showed me words I had never known. Words like Levitation, Gaseous Form, and even Cleric.
You fomented a love of reading that continues to this day. You grabbed me by the hand and showed me treasure after treasure. Our flirting was harmless at first - The Hobbit, The Black Cauldron, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. I fumbled self-consciously as I chased you from bookshelf to bookshelf, amazed as the secrets you were revealing.
Later, as we matured, you revealed to me that some of the very best stories really had happened. You kindled in me a passion for history. You showed me fascinating people - Alexander, Hannibal, Leonidas, Theodoric, Simon de Montfort, Llewellyn Fawr, James Douglas. Never once did you complain when I spurned you for them. You knew I would be back, eventually, and I would be a better man for our time apart.
And come back I did. We would spend a few months together before once more I would find myself interested in some other pretty face. During those early years of college it was Philosophy. Do you remember her? Jeesh, I’m a bit embarrassed now about how hard I fell despite how little I knew about her. You let that elusive lady show me Socrates, his pupil Plato, and then his pupil Aristotle. You let her and I celebrate with Marcus Aurelius and Augustine. Even when we started partying with Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, and Heine – you never arched an eyebrow.
Then you showed me the joy of creating. You – more than anyone - encouraged me to write. When the house was empty and the only light was the dim illumination of a computer monitor, you were always there with a word of advice or a few phrases from one of our past exploits. You stood by me when everyone else seemed enwrapped in their own frenetic lives.
Yet the most important gift you ever gave me – more even than the admiration of history or philosophy, the love or reading or the passion for writing – was the friendships you enabled. You introduced me to some wonderful people. People, I must admit, I probably never would have known were it not for you. I was in different circles back then, I ran with different crowds. I was concentrating on football or baseball, other girls, and beer. Always beer. You were as persistent as you were patient. You bided your time, knowing that sometimes the strongest relationships are those that appear placid on the surface. And, of course, you were correct. Those folks you introduced to me remain my most valued friends even now.
When I finally graduated college I thought we were over. I had been around, seen quite a few interesting ladies. I viewed our relationship more as “puppy love” than any lasting bond. People would laugh when they found out you and I had been a couple. Most of them, it turns out, had dated you – but their relationships with you never eclipsed a burst of adolescent romance. I was never jealous – on the contrary, I wish they had had more time to learn how fascinating a woman you are.
We had something special, you and I. Even when I was feigning ignorance of who you were, I still knew one day we would be together again. I would find myself migrating, ever so slyly, toward a certain section in the bookstore just to see your face. I’d manage to catch a movie that’d remind me of some of the adventures we had together; the urge to call old friends and arrange a reunion was always there.
I’m embarrassed to say that a few times a year I would rummage through my storage boxes above the garage just to find a couple old dice, and I’d watch a ballgame while idly rolling them on the coffee table. Nostalgia would wash over me like a wave.
Yet we grew apart as I grew older. Things had changed.
I had changed. I had a job, school loans, and more school loans. Shortly thereafter I had a kid, then another, and even one more on the way. I wanted to talk to you – truly, I did. But it was hard. There was never enough time, schedules never seemed to work. I was afraid; I was sure you would not be the same woman you had been when we last parted ways. And I was right.
You had changed, too. In the old days you really liked to talk a lot. You could spend hours discussing a subject that you now can describe in a couple sentences. Though I love the fact you don’t confuse me as much nowadays, the romantic in me misses your long-winded explanations. You’ve always been beautiful, but now you’ve garnered an aura of sophistication. You’re not nearly as contradictory or confusing as you once were.
You’re as vibrant and full of life as you’ve ever been.
I’m always amazed at how amazing you are. You infect people with imagination and creativity; you nurture friendships and encourage discussion. In this world of cell phones and video games you still manage to show people that sometimes the simplest pursuits are best – reading, writing, talking, playing.
I just wanted to let you know that – through it all – I’ve never stopped needing you. I may have been away for weeks, months, years at a time. But not once was I able to forget about you, though – sadly enough – I often tried.
A few years ago we came together again. Someone told me they had seen you in the bookstore. You looked different, they had said. I wanted to see you so badly – I remember stopping by the store on the way home from work just to see how you had changed. Shortly thereafter you encouraged me to call our other dear, old friends.
I’m not so modest to not say how proud I am that all of us now get together on a regular basis. Sure, we’ve all put on a few pounds; we have facial hair. We used to play on the playground, in the library, or huddled around a coffee table in our parents’ houses. Now we play in hotel conference rooms or large, finished basements. We used to drink iced tea or soda. Now we drink beer – er, ale.
Just last session you had us all laughing. Remember how those frost worms nearly killed the entire party? Poor Moril was running for the Rope Trick like his hair was on fire, and I thought Matt was going to throw his dice against the wall. That green dragon certainly had them quaking. Those magnificent monsters seem to grow stronger by the year, don’t they? In the end, all of them managed to work together and finish what they had set out to do. We’re a good team, you and I and all of our friends.
Come to think of it - nothing’s really changed at all, has it?
Here’s hoping for another twenty years,
Destan
Last edited:
