How is it that things from the past can haunt us so? They jump into the future all fast and ferocious, leaving us melancholy and settled in a depth where we can't always touch bottom? Once upon a time there was someone who meant a great deal to me. He was a good friend to me in a difficult time of my life, when I was still full of confusion and self-doubt and wildly spinning trying to find center. Don't get me wrong, it's not a romantic drama; when I say 'friend', that is what I mean.
I found out in 2000 that he had died several years prior. All I have is a copy of an obituary that I came across by accident while searching local newspaper archives for clues about my husband's birth family (and I'm certain it was fate that I happened upon it -- what are the odds?). The obituary doesn't tell me anything about what happened, but enough information to be certain it was him.
And every so often, I wonder.
Sometimes it comes writhing and wriggling to the surface, when I least expect it. What if I hadn't been so selfish and blind? What if I hadn't moved on....what if I had been realistic with myself, would he still have died? Would I have known if he did? Would I have possession of that ever-elusive thing called closure? Would it matter more or less to me than it does now, hanging in my heart like someone's coat in my closet that they will never return for? What if he had known what he meant to me? Or maybe he did? I suppose; I hope.
I'm not holding on to guilt; we had lost touch a number of years before he died, and I can't second guess it, I'm far too wise and life-lived now for that. It's not entirely like grief, either, for it brings too much happiness to me to think about him. I fully expected to see his name in lights one day, for he had a dream and the gifts to achieve it, chasing it down like the wind. I used to tell him that I would say "I knew him way back when" and tell silly life-affirming stories about the time he convinced me to ride the hammer head at the fair. I was certain I would be sick, and he insisted 12 ways till Sunday that he would not be. In the end, I wasn't sick; he was, and we laughed about it. There are scholarships in his name, and I find joy in the knowing that others are realizing his dream, by proxy. There is also a sadness for me, deep and reverberating, wondering what could have been. I still think about his family, his mother in particular (whom I only met once or twice), and pray for them to know peace.
This feeling tonight, it's more like, reflection.
*Peter Gabriel - That Voice Again
I found out in 2000 that he had died several years prior. All I have is a copy of an obituary that I came across by accident while searching local newspaper archives for clues about my husband's birth family (and I'm certain it was fate that I happened upon it -- what are the odds?). The obituary doesn't tell me anything about what happened, but enough information to be certain it was him.
And every so often, I wonder.
Sometimes it comes writhing and wriggling to the surface, when I least expect it. What if I hadn't been so selfish and blind? What if I hadn't moved on....what if I had been realistic with myself, would he still have died? Would I have known if he did? Would I have possession of that ever-elusive thing called closure? Would it matter more or less to me than it does now, hanging in my heart like someone's coat in my closet that they will never return for? What if he had known what he meant to me? Or maybe he did? I suppose; I hope.
I'm not holding on to guilt; we had lost touch a number of years before he died, and I can't second guess it, I'm far too wise and life-lived now for that. It's not entirely like grief, either, for it brings too much happiness to me to think about him. I fully expected to see his name in lights one day, for he had a dream and the gifts to achieve it, chasing it down like the wind. I used to tell him that I would say "I knew him way back when" and tell silly life-affirming stories about the time he convinced me to ride the hammer head at the fair. I was certain I would be sick, and he insisted 12 ways till Sunday that he would not be. In the end, I wasn't sick; he was, and we laughed about it. There are scholarships in his name, and I find joy in the knowing that others are realizing his dream, by proxy. There is also a sadness for me, deep and reverberating, wondering what could have been. I still think about his family, his mother in particular (whom I only met once or twice), and pray for them to know peace.
This feeling tonight, it's more like, reflection.
What I carry in my heartAnd I cry. And it brings a smile to my soul.
brings us so close or so far apart
Only love can make love*
*Peter Gabriel - That Voice Again
I know what you mean; I have a few of those spectres of the past myself--people who meant a great deal, with whom I've lost touch--wondering where they are, how they are doing, what it might have been like had we stayed in touch...and wishing we had.
ReplyDeleteYeah, I have a few of those specters, too. And I've stumbled across the unexpected obituary, also. Hmm... yeas, a sort of melancholy reflection, wondering if...
ReplyDeleteLosing a friend or any loved one without getting closure can be haunting. It sounds like you did some healthy processing, but will it ever feel peaceful? Maybe not.
ReplyDeleteSounds like your friend was a good person and he was lucky to have you in his life...so am I.
Erin
ReplyDeleteI feel blessed that through your writings I can find some of my own feelings and thoughts that I've stuffed for too long.
Thank you.
Jeff - Yes, I have many others, too. This is the one that haunts me most. It's interesting to ask ourselves "what if?"
ReplyDeleteKatherine - You know it's helpful to me to know I'm not alone in this. Sometimes when it comes to mind I feel kinda weird.
ReplyDeleteBarbara - Thank you. I'm lucky to have you, too. ;-)
ReplyDeleteI know that closure is important and that for some things in our lives we will never get it. I guess it's one of the ways we grow.
Thank you Rhonda. I'm glad it speaks to you.
ReplyDeleteBeautifully written, Erin.
ReplyDeleteThanks Gary.
ReplyDelete