It was six years ago on Valentines Day.
She was my pretty and soulful "spiritual friend" and co-worker. She stopped by my office at quitting time, and suggested we take our two shredded hearts out for a drink.
Walking along the busy sidewalk, we stopped before a shop window and looked at a t-shirt design mocking Valentines Day. Wordlessly, she took my hand, and we walked along knowing the other understood.
I look back on this day with such regret of missed opportunities; and I, with a bitter-sweet hope, like to think she does, too.
What could have been... What I should have done... How things might be different if only...
Yes. I know, now.
I should have bought that shirt.
09 February 2013
I woke this morning to loud noises outside my bedroom window. I then
watched two men with a tow-truck repossessing a neighbor's car. I
worried that there would be a confrontation. There was not. I imagined
my neighbor sitting up in his or her own bed watching, quietly resolved
that there was nothing left to do.
Earlier this week, I came
home from work and stopped in the parking lot thinking I heard a cry.
After a few moments, hearing nothing, I continue toward the steps of my
apartment and heard it again, louder, and could identify the neighbor's
unit. "Oh God, NO! Oh, please! You can't do this! Why are you doing
this?!" Heart wrenching words.
Had he caught the love of
his life with another? Had his computer just crashed as he was
leveling-up on a video game? I don't know my neighbors, yet, so I could
not judge-- but hoped for the latter as I went up to my place.
Monday, I have to dig up my own loss. The loss of my two children
which coincided with the loss of my work, my home, everything I had ever
owned, my hopes, my dreams, and my marriage. It might have been a
house-fire which only I survived, so complete was the destruction and I
sometimes describe it that way as a metaphor.
years ago, on a rainy Fourth of July, I helped fight a house fire with
garden hoses because the only firetruck was stuck in a parade ten miles
away. When the mother emerged from the house, I asked, "Where are the
children?" She said she thought they were in the back bedroom. Two of
us tried to get to the back bedroom from inside, but were driven back by
flames, and the lack of air did not allow for second tries.
went around back, outside, and after several attempts to break out the
window to that room which was just above my head, I watched in horror as
the curtains roiled against the glass in black smoke and red flame.
The children, I soon learned, were safe at the house next door. The
horror, however, was real... and foreshadowing.
I only FEEL the
loss of my children now. Periodically, I go to court to protest, but
now I go as a stranger to my children with nothing to regain -- except
my own voice. My children do not remember me. I go only for me.
I have these boxes -- haunted boxes. In some are records of all the
efforts I made trying to locate my children, regain, and maintain
contact with them only to find them disappearing again. I have to go
through these this weekend and the memories threaten when I open them.
In other boxes, there are toys and keepsakes my children asked me to
keep safe for them when we were still in each other's lives. I am
afraid of those boxes-- they hurt. I cannot tell the difference between
which boxes only threaten and which boxes stab upon opening, until I
remove the lid and look inside.
When I was a child, the scariest and worst words from the Bible were these:
And he said unto them, "Verily I say unto you, There is no man that hath left house, or wife, or brethren, or parents, or children, for the kingdom of God's sake, who shall not receive manifold more in this time, and in the world to come eternal life."