While at university (I’ve overused the phrase, ‘a lifetime ago’, so instead just think of the
opening line of the classic ‘American Pie’) I did a paper for an English class. Essentially, I took the most popular British poems, based on their being published in textbooks, academic papersand the like, 80 in total, and then determined the age of the author when they were first written or published. With one exception, not one poet was older than 28. My unscientific explanation at the time was when you are young, you live, experience and love with a passion that can’t be duplicated or drawn upon for inspiration later given the accumulation of experience, wisdom and, dare I say it, weariness of life, as we age.
With the benefit of time, and based on a set of circumstances which I’ll briefly touch
upon, I can safely say, despite my youthful arrogance when I wrote the paper, my conclusion
was fairly accurate (at least for me). I had a relationship with Laura in my early twenties. She was a year older with a two-year old daughter, Bridget (not their real names as I still protect their privacy). I was in love for the first time; she wasn’t. It lasted less than three months. I won’t bore you with the period that followed after. Suffice to say at some point, I recovered and moved on.
I saw Laura periodically after that, and then we drifted apart, aided no doubt by the fact
she found someone else and got married. I did the same.
However, some twenty-five years after the end of our relationship, a mutual friend took
me aside and told me Laura was dead. She had died of alcoholic poisoning. She was forty-nine.
It shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did. It was a long time ago. We were together
for only a period of weeks and in hindsight it would have never lasted. I had matured, met
someone, was (and still am) happily married with two wonderful children.
But it hurt.
Fast forward another fifteen years. The same mutual friend contacted me and said she
had some bad news. Laura’s daughter, who I had last seen when she was two (and I have only
one photograph of the three of us) had been brutally murdered on Vancouver Island. There was now a Go-Fund Me campaign for Laura’s granddaughter (whom she had never met).
Again, a flow of emotion as I read the media account and saw the photo of both Bridget
and her daughter. I contributed to the campaign, but it seemed almost like a hollow gesture.
As if I hadn’t done enough.
Then, three weeks ago, I received an invite to a multimedia event. It was put together by
Laura’s former husband and is described as ‘a tribute to (Bridget’s) richly complex life’.
I have been unsettled since, debating on what to do. Our mutual friend bought me a
ticket but also indicated she would understand if I chose not to attend.
As I write this, I’m still unsure. There is a cauldron of emotion I can’t seem to properly
unlock; something I never expected given as I had said above, the accumulation of experience and wisdom that supposedly comes with age.
The event is in seven days. I’m torn. Just like a twenty-year old, still finding my way.
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