Her Two Cents
The Brooklyn and Manhattan missed connections have a reputation for “stories,” and some have actually made their way to lifestyle blogs like Elephant Journal. You never know if the stories are creative non-fiction or outright fantasy, but they’re generally well written and interesting to read. But the question still remains; is our Brooklyn poet fishing for larger exposure or expressing themselves through words about their past actions and emotions? Does the answer even matter?
The last ten years passed so quickly that I have found myself in a place I do not like. Graduate school, wedding, fund raisers, cocktails parties have all blurred my vision. The other day my son asked me “Dad, who was your first girlfriend?” I was speechless because it hit me like a ton of bricks. I could not process all of the feelings and still can’t.
It feels like yesterday that your friend, SM, approached me and said that you thought I was cute. We talked all night. I leaned toward you with my hands in my pocket so you did not see them shake and we kissed. That was the first of thousands. We would talk for hours about nothing. During our first argument, we laughed and marked the occasion romantically. Our love was pure. Material items, money, station in life, car, job, education, and clothes did not matter. We made each other little gifts. I can never wear another string bracelet. You always kept me grounded and reminded me of the simple pleasures of life.
As we got older our relationship always continued on and off. You decided to stay local and I had dreams of concurring the world. We always returned to each other but I always left with more to concur. I recall the last night we were together; I wanted to take you to a new hip restaurant before I left to show you I was moving up in the world. But you did not care were we went. You just wanted to spend time alone and talk, like we always did. We went to the beach with some snacks and a bottle of wine. We talked and danced under the stars until the sun came up. You felt we were soul mates. We were two parts to the same soul that could not live without the other. We promised to remain together forever. You never had to say I love you because I saw it in your eyes.
I was gone too long when you called to tell me that someone had proposed. I knew that the DB took advantage of my absence. I knew that you wanted me to stop you. But I could not, I was too afraid of ruining your life. It would have been selfish for me to have you wait while I was trying to define my life.
We would occasionally talk and I knew that the DB was taking you down a bad path. As my career was now in motion, I was a few months away from my return. I was planning to leave the armor, weapons and troops behind. I was absolutely certain that when you saw me all I had to do was close my eyes and reach out my hand. Before I could return I received a call from SM, you were in the hospital and needed me. I rushed home but did not make it in time. I walked into the wake and felt numb. Part of me was gone. I had lost the only pure thing in my life. The person in the casket was not you. I did not want to remember you like that.
You now lay sleeping for eternity. I returned, married, and started a family. It is unfair, but I measure her against what was pure. She is not you. She still does not understand that a hand made string bracelet was the best gift I ever received. My thoughts of you lessen at times but the reminders are everywhere. I sometimes walk pass the spot where we first kissed. I thought that time would have healed this wound but the guilt and sadness have grown stronger. What if? I want to find your grave so I can visit and lay on the ground and stare at the stars with you. I wish we could talk, like we always did.
When I would leave you always gave me a letter to read on my journey. I recently found the last note in my parents’ attic. You asked me never to change and never to forget you. I have not forgotten you but I changed the day your part of me died.
Reading this I thought first of Christine Lavin’s song from the early 90’s: “The Kind of Love You Never Recover From.” That song is lovely, and tender, which is how this reads, mostly. There is burden here, and the price of seeing a love this way. I’m thinking of the line, “It is unfair, but I measure her against what was pure. She is not you.” If this is a true story, I hope those are words he never utters. Not to his wife, or to anyone in between.
If this is a true story. You are right to wonder. Of course, it just may be that this story is as true as he can tell it. Our minds can be fascinating that way. “Why didn’t he call me?” “Why did she say that?” ” Is there something he’s really after?” “Was she saying it’s over?” So many hoops we find before us. We, searching for a freedom we locate with someone else, in the blue skies of what we remember once was.
That’s fantasy, eh?