An Open Letter to: My dearest Robert David, I went out my door that morning and you were standing there in the ditch with your back to me, leaning on your shovel wearing a brown button-down shirt with the collar turned up, camouflage board shorts, socks and work boots, and your John Deere baseball cap turned backwards and pulled down low front and back. In that moment, my entire being sang, and soared, and lit up, and started to hum and throb. I didn’t know your name, I hadn’t seen your face, I knew absolutely nothing about you except that I loved you, all-consumingly. Eventually I saw your beautiful face, I heard your melodious voice, I watched you work, I listened to you talk, I was finally introduced, and at every turn that humming intensified. We’d run into one another here or there, and every time you opened your mouth if you didn’t make me laugh you surprised me with wisdom of great depth that you spoke as though it ought to be common knowledge, or you simply made me