I Met You in the Rain on the Last Day of 1972, The Same Day I Resolved to Kill Myself- A Man’s Post on Craigslist

I Met You in the Rain on the Last Day of 1972

We meet a lot of people in our lifetime. Sometimes we experience strange and short encounters with strangers that leave us thinking about them or wanting to meet them again, miss connection with them or never see them ever in life. There is always a reason behind everything that happens in life whether sweet or bitter. Thanks to missed connections on craigslist. You can write to your heart’s content here and let the world know your feelings. Here’s is an intriguing story of a Boston man and what his encounter with a stranger in the rain on the last day of 1972 turned out to be.

Note: Craigslist is known for many things, but perhaps the most famous is its Missed Connections section. Amorous city dwellers who couldn’t work up the nerve to say something to that cute stranger they were eye-flirting with on the train can post a message detailing the time and place, hoping said stranger will do the same.

The messages are generally short and sweet, like, “I was the one in the blue headphones, you were the one in the pink skirt. We both got off at Union Square and I wish I ran after you…” But this post from the Boston Missed Connections board is different, and it’s gone viral. So what’s all the fuss about, and why is Wired saying this might be “the first Craigslist ad to win a Pulitzer”? Read it for yourself: I met you in the rain on the last day of 1972, the same day I resolved to kill myself. One week prior, at the behest of Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger, I’d flown four B-52 sorties over Hanoi. I dropped 48 bombs. How many homes I destroyed, how many lives I ended, I’ll never know. But in the eyes of my superiors, I had served

This is a Boston man’s “Missed Connections” post on Craigslist about a woman he met on New Year’s Eve in 1972. It was too beautiful not to share, and a great reminder that you never know why the people you meet are there…

I met you in the rain on the last day of 1972, the same day I resolved to kill myself.

One week prior, at the behest of Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger, I’d flown four B-52 sorties over Hanoi. I dropped forty-eight bombs. How many homes I destroyed, how many lives I ended, I’ll never know. But in the eyes of my superiors, I had served my country honorably, and I was thusly discharged with such distinction.

And so on the morning of that New Year’s Eve, I found myself in a barren studio apartment on Beacon and Hereford with a fifth of Tennessee rye and the pang of shame permeating the recesses of my soul. When the bottle was empty, I made for the door and vowed, upon returning, that I would retrieve the Smith & Wesson Model 15 from the closet and give myself the discharge I deserved.

I walked for hours. I looped around the Fenway before snaking back past Symphony Hall and up to Trinity Church. Then I roamed through the Common, scaled the hill with its golden dome, and meandered into that charming labyrinth divided by Hanover Street. By the time I reached the waterfront, a charcoal sky had opened and a drizzle became a shower. That shower soon gave way to a deluge. While the other pedestrians darted for awnings and lobbies, I trudged into the rain. I suppose I thought, or rather hoped, that it might wash away the patina of guilt that had coagulated around my heart. It didn’t, of course, so I started back to the apartment.

And then I saw you.

You’d taken shelter under the balcony of the Old State House. You were wearing a teal ball gown, which appeared to me both regal and ridiculous. Your brown hair was matted to the right side of your face, and a galaxy of freckles dusted your shoulders. I’d never seen anything so beautiful.

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