St. Ann - My Home and what is left of it...

I had an opportunity to fly back to my hometown of St. Louis this past April after a six-year stint in Phoenix, AZ. I was only going to be in town for a full day, at best, since I'd be helping my sister-in-law make the move back to my adopted Arizona. I'll be honest, it's hard to put into words what I saw and felt in a 24-hour snapshot of the 'Lou'.

I've tried to keep my finger on the pulse of home since I've been gone, with varying degrees of success. Social media has afforded me access to groups that are populated by current residents of my municipality, St. Ann. Within those groups, I've been able to keep abreast of developments at the old Northwest Plaza site, some local politics, and the social clamor the followed Ferguson. But one really has to see a thing to understand it.

I flew in to Lambert with an unusual sense of trepidation, which I admit was predicated on recent revelations about Cold Water Creek. Disembarking in what I will always call the East Terminal, even the airport struck me as visibly outdated and poorly kept compared to some of the places I've visited in the past year. This turned out to be the first in a long list of observations that pervaded my time at home, and contributed to an overwhelming and undeniable theme.

Vacancy.

It's an unfortunate reality of economic depression. Businesses close, jobs dry up, and the people who are left behind often stop having the sense of pride that goes along with the bright, shiny, and profitable. Tax revenues go down and city budgets become the next victim of creative budgeting. The roads fall into disrepair, common areas become overgrown, and even power lines look cobbled together and questionably safe. The entire face of the community starts to show signs of neglect. It's the pallor that falls over a town when the money has gone away. Businesses are empty. Homes are empty. Churches are empty. Lots where memories were forged are empty.


My dad once took me to an hardware store, and as we walked out, he told me that the business was going under. I asked how he knew. "The life has gone out of it," he said. "The shelves are half-empty, the store is in disarray, and there are hardly any customers."

He was right. Within six months, that store was shuttered. I felt similarly about St. Ann.

Later, on the night of my arrival from Phoenix, I sat in a restaurant with my wife and friends, pensively eating my toasted ravs. I didn't have much to say, not that much of it would have been good. Up until this point, I'd been to the East Terminal, a moving truck rental facility in Earth City, and my childhood home. In every single place, there was just more vacancy.

The news in St. Ann hasn't been good lately. I mentioned Cold Water Creek earlier. That was particularly hard to swallow. I had friends that grew up down on that end of town, and from the reports I've read, they are friends I likely won't see at future High School Reunions. I was luckier to have grown up a few miles farther south, but I still wonder what I will face in the years to come.

St. Ann municipal courts are also under fire for laws that disfavor the poor. Well, given the economic state of the city, there are more of those to go around. One local resident pragmatically suggested that people 'stop breaking the law'. It's hard to deny the causality of that, but it's also realistic to say that law enforcement reaches a tipping point where fines become a hole from which the declining median income provides no escape.

There was also a pipeline for removing toxic leachate from the Bridgeton landfill that was supposedly going in with little public disclosure. That story seems to have died with very little reporting being done. And what can be done? Two dozen people showed up to a public meeting in which company representatives were questioned. Two dozen, out of nearly thirteen-thousand, that showed up to ask what could be done.

Still more vacancy. Vacancy of public involvement. Vacancy of legislative disclosure. Vacancy of legislative action. Vacancy of vested interest.

All I can really do from Phoenix is to cry 'shenanigans' and watch as my home town is slowly swallowed by apathy and band-aid solutions. But maybe that's the legacy of St. Louis county. The frog is slowly being brought to a boil. There really is no denying it.

So I challenge you to see St. Ann through the eyes of a returning son. Go stand on any street corner of the Rock Road corridor between Wismer Road and Lindbergh Boulevard. Ask yourself honestly how much time you want to spend there. Ask yourself how long you'd expect any visitor to stay. What would they stay for? Empty businesses, potholed streets, litter and weeds?

Me either.

There are some who may criticize my treatment of this issue as unnecessarily harsh. There are a number who still have pride in the city and think it's a great place to live. They are the ones who show up at city council meetings, write to their Aldermen, and organize interest groups. But more like them are needed if there is any chance of rescuing St. Ann from the black hole of vacancy.

The Dude Abides

Yes, that bastion of urban colloquialism. Dude. It's a word that is so reliably present in the American lexicon that most people have forgotten its meaning. My high-school Industrial Technology teacher, Mr. Sater, had a rule against its use, unless it was done properly. Since I respected him so, being the only teacher (or person in general) that I ever consistently called "Sir", and being the next-door neighbor to his daughter, I followed his express wishes without ever complaining.

I figured out, as a high-school freshmen, what that word meant. Though I haven't always used it correctly since, I've made a mental note every time I've misused it. A dude, besides being a slacker pot-aficionado with a penchant for White Russians, is a person who is unfamiliar with horsemanship. More specifically, it's a person who vacations on a ranch, but is otherwise a resident of an urban area. This is also where we get the term "Dude Ranch".

I like to think of myself as a capable man. I can swing a hammer, wire a light switch, split wood, hunt, fish, and all kinds of manly shit. But horses... Well, I just haven't ridden a whole lot of them.

Back when I was a 20-something, I went a few times with my young wife to A&A Ranch, which is completely misleading. It was a stable next to an I-170 overpass. Calling it a ranch of any kind is just a damn lie. It's since been renamed Ace Stables, but for $20 and a tip to the trail guide, you could go on a half-hour ride. The guide was typically a teenage girl, and this had absolutely nothing to do with why I enjoyed going.

Time and unforeseen occurrence being what they are, the universe conspired to make sure that I had very little opportunity to ride for the last thirteen years or so. I like horses just fine. I'm not afraid of them, and I even have what I feel is a natural rapport. I do with most animals.

This past weekend, I set up a ride at Koli Equestrian Center for me and my family. I don't recommend an hour-and-a-half in a saddle if you haven't done it frequently enough. My ass is sore. Very sore.

The office was neatly decorated, but utilitarian. It was clearly inhabited by people who work for a living. There were two shelters out in the pasture with an adjacent exercise ring. Two dozen horses were tied off under the shelters, well shaded and seemingly quite content. We met with our guide, a very nice Native girl who was maybe twenty-five, named Silvia. She took us out to meet our horses and we were asked to stand outside the corral until called for. The boss, a very impressive looking Native with a proper cowboy hat, called us over one at at time to mount up.

My darling daughter got an older horse named Alice. Silvia told us that it used to be Crazy Alice, but she'd had calmed down a lot in her later years, so it had been shortened. Alice had a history of having thrown every employee who had tried to ride her while she was being broken.

Mrs. got a beautiful Paint named Butch. He seemed a little shorter than my mount, but he was calm and loving. Butch was of certain age at around 16, and had a companion that he liked to spend time with. Of course his name would be Cassidy. Had it been me, I'd have gone with Sundance.

My horse was also a beautiful Paint named Slider. She was only slightly older that Butch, and otherwise well mannered. She didn't seem to care for her bit and tossed her head frequently during the ride. We managed to get along well enough despite the perceived discomfort.

Unlike most trail rides, we weren't relegated to the straight line business of following he leader. The loosely defined trail gave us the option to follow several different paths, with each of us being in the lead at any given time. Slider had a natural tendency to want to be in front, and as a result, walked a little faster than everyone else. So, I practiced with her a little. We'd trot from time to time. I'd lead her back and forth on the path, and she was quite willing to comply. Besides feeling a need to hurry, she was very pleasant and well-mannered. Sometimes, I'd hold her up to wait for the others and turn circles with her among the sage brush. From a distance, I imagined that she looked like she was dancing.

The Sonoran Desert of Southern Arizona is a vast place. Life is hard, but not impossible. Though the guide groused about the lack of wildlife during our ride, I didn't think it was that bad. The tough and hardy vegetation is beautiful in its harsh way. Lizards scampered about in abundance and colonies of ants toiled on a graciously cool day. We spotted a few red-tail hawks, one grey hawk, and a lonely old coyote.

A friend of mine, who understands my love of nature, said that I should spend some time in the woods. Well, this was far from it, but it was still a beautiful way to spend an afternoon. Time spent in nature isn't a labor of any kind. It's calming. Every sound is soft. Every creature, noble. For ninety minutes, I got to abide with the world according to natural law, and with a sweet Painted mare to bear me along on a serene stroll.

There is a pleasantness in being an observer in the natural world. There's very little commitment except to appreciate it and protect it. The sights and sounds of creatures great and small always give me a measure of peace that I couldn't find anywhere else. With the soundtrack being little more than the wind in the mesquites, and the soft clop clop of hooves on the gritty Sonoran soil, I'll admit to being no cowboy. But neither am I a dude.

Life Particles and other Cosmic Phenomena

Dahn Yoga was offering an open-house of sorts. Well, to say they're open on Sundays and staffed by volunteers is more accurate. Come one, come all. Leave your preconceived notions at the door and be ready to share in an exercise of being bigger than yourself.

My folks would be having fits at the thought of me going to a yoga class. "It's a pagan religion," they would chide. Not true, and it's still more godly that sitting slothily on one's ass, and gluttonously eating potato chips while watching pseudo-erotica that you hide from the kids. But, no indictments from me.

I know a little about a lot of stuff. Enough to make conversation with anyone who knows more about a given topic than I do, but not enough to be called an expert about much of anything. So, to paraphrase my favorite Bart Simpson quote, "Lady, what I don't know about yoga could fill a warehouse."

I once thought that yoga was really just frequented by a bunch of kept-women and stay-at-home moms who had nothing better to do between the hours of 9am and 2pm, and maybe it is. Admittedly, my experiential cross section of the demographic is from one hour of one Sunday. But Dahn Yoga was interesting. The small reception area (really more of a vestibule) was filled with a few chairs, a water cooler and racks of herbs. There were traction socks and meditation magnets on the walls, and pamphlets and flyers galore. The facilitator was a woman of a certain age whose name I didn't actually hear, but she bowed deeply to me when I entered and hugged me warmly. Her greeting was in Korean, though she was most decidedly of European descent.

She invited me into the studio and, along with some other attendees, we started dancing. It wasn't dancing in the traditional sense, though one of the other women in the class certainly turned it into that, but an exercise to stimulate the acupressure points on the balls of my feet. After fifteen minutes of alternately tapping my toes on the mat (while surreptitiously working my way around the room and feigning interest in the informational posters), my right hip flexor groaned incessantly. I think I need to see a chiropractor.

The next forty minutes or so were dedicated to exercises where we stimulated our energy and did several poses, which were meant to both strengthen the body and focus the mind. Throughout, we used magnets to direct energy to or away from our chakras, and I admit that when centering the magnet between my eyes (the seat of wisdom and knowledge), I certainly did feel a small ache that I could not explain.

One of the last exercises we did was to sit in a half-lotus position (you know this as indian style or criss-cross applesauce (the more PC term these days)) and our hands in front of us, nearly touching. We were to focus on the energy crossing between our palms and then to extend our hands out as far as we could until we felt that connection being lost. As I extended my hands, I felt as if there were in fact a rubber band trying to pull them back together. As we breathed in, I stretched the imaginary rubber band. And as we breathed out, I allowed it to pull my hands together.

As the exercise progressed, we were encouraged to imagine ourselves embracing the earth when our hands came back together. Then we were embracing someone that we didn't really like and asking their forgiveness. The next person was someone we loved, to whom we were sending our energy. And our final embrace was of ourselves. How can we love others if we don't first love ourselves? It's true.

I came away from the class with a new appreciation. The Sleeping Tiger pose is in fact physically difficult. Guided mediation does affect tangible sensation and the flow of energy. Is it psychosomatic? Could be. But does it matter? The volunteer-instructor brought us into a sharing circle at the end and we were given an opportunity to discuss whatever we felt during the class.

One woman expressed an awareness of her left foot, which I can only surmise is numbed from some medical condition. Another woman discussed her meditation practices from a battle with cancer five years ago. On Sunday, she welcomed back the occurrence of the color purple, which had been frequent visitor during her cancer days. I discussed my 'rubber band'. Others shared the inclusion of sensations not previously felt during the magnet exercises.

I can only conclude that the reality of meditation is in the effect that it has on people. I believe that it's more, but I'm looking for something concrete, verifiable. In the mean time, a warm hug from a stranger and a relaxing stretch on the floor while getting in touch with the universe can't be a bad thing.

And I'm not above copping a cosmic-feel.

Ties that Bind

George Machuga: No middle name, son of immigrant parents, graduate of the 8th grade, World War 2 veteran, Union Electric retiree, one of Jehovah's Witnesses, and my grandfather. I've discussed his impact on my life in some detail before, but honestly, an encyclopedia of volumes wouldn't really be enough to cover everything worth discussing. I had a pretty good run of thirty or so years in which to be a grandson. That time was precious to me in a way that I can barely describe, and in that time, I came to know a man who was utterly reliable and predictable, but never boring. There were, in fact, some things so defining of George that I cannot associate them with anyone else. At least not with that level of certitude. All others are just poseurs. Pretenders to the throne.

So, my little sis sends me a picture she took in a Walmart the other day. No caption or explanation was necessary. It was a neck tie. Not just any neck tie. It was a zipper neck tie.

Now, a lot of people have never seen these little contraptions, and most give me those confused puppy head turns when I try to explain it. Consider it the dickey collar of business accessories. For the discerning man who doesn't have time or wherewithal to tie a traditional neck tie, consider the zipper tie. When cinched, it looks no different from any other tie, but the neck band is literally a zipper. Yes, for $10, you too can have the ease and convenience of a zipper, but the class and sophistication of a top CEO.

It was also the only kind of tie that George ever wore. Since the advent of the zipper tie, I don't think he ever saw a need to use anything more complicated. I rather doubt that he knew how to tie a Half-Windsor, which then makes me wonder how he managed his dress uniform while in the Army. I saw his wedding photo and he was wearing a tie. Grandma may have tied it for him...

So, when this picture downloaded to my phone, I laughed heartily. Not only was it a zipper tie, but it hung on a tag that said 'George'. It, quite literally, was George's Zipper Tie. And for a moment, I thought back to all of the times that I associated with those ties.

Throughout my youth, I spent countless weeks with my grandparents. Those weeks included events of religious fealty. Three times in any given week, we would end up driving from the town of Livingston, Illinois, to a neighboring town of Gillespie. That is where the Kingdom Hall was located. When we left my grandparent's house, we'd head in a northerly direction, often with a quick detour to pick up Joan Lilley. Joan was the matriarch of her clan, and as sweet a woman as one could hope to meet. Her persistently positive attitude could unravel just about any bad mood you could have. And being a grandmother, she always had a couple of dollars and some candy to spread around.

Joan was also the mother of Lorraine 'Rainy' Mathenia (nee Lilley), my mother's sister-in-law. As it would turn out, I was related to more than half of the Gillespie congregation of Jehovah's Witnesses. Last names were in such short supply that congregation elders took to simply using a member's first name with a prefix of 'sister' or 'brother' as gender would dictate. It made identifying people during audience participation much easier.

Saturdays were almost always relegated to public ministry. This is where readers roll their eyes at the 10am wake up call they get from the local congregation, while they try to distribute the Watchtower and Awake magazines. Believe me when I say that anyone who has ever claimed to have had their doorbell rung at 8am or earlier by a Witness is just lying. Witnesses don't even conduct their morning meeting prior to 9am, and they don't ring any doorbells until after.

Having their congregation spread out over such a large portion of southern Illinois, George (being an elder) often conducted  the Saturday morning meeting with only the people who would be venturing out with him. Other elders would do the same with their own local groups. So our particular car group was seldom more than the grandparents, my aunt and uncle, one or more grandchildren, including myself. The remainder of the day was spent driving from one farm to the next. In the rural confines of Macoupin County, an entire day of public ministry could entail visiting only three houses.

On one particular Saturday in early summer, we drove along the roads northwest of a town called Staunton. Sometime before lunch, George suddenly pulled over to the shoulder of a road that was nestled in the valley of some heavily wooded hills. We got out of the car walked through the weeds in the ditch. Out of the long hill that stretched up from that ditch, a simple pipe jutted, trickling a steady stream of water. I stood carefully so as not to get my new dress shoes wet. They were Polish leather (had no idea Pols made leather shoes), and a nail from the sole was poking through into my foot. They were uncomfortable, but looked nice.

George told me that the water was from a natural spring. Who had plumbed this little spigot was unknown, but the water was fresh and delicious in my cupped hands. I drank my fill and stepped away, flinging water from my hands. George stooped to fill his cupped hands in the same way I did. The whole time he drank, his otherwise laughable zipper tie flapped in the breeze against his grey suit.

The ties were cheesy and inexpensive, but they were utterly him. As much as his faith was part of his life, there is very little of it that I got to share that didn't include those ties. In truth, much of the context of my youth incorporated those ties, including extended family. I find it strangely comforting that such a ridiculous object can make so many people think of him. I suppose that's because I miss him so much, and the thought that he still lives on in the people that mattered to him is soothing. 

The Road Goes Ever On...

I always felt a twinge of anxiety any time someone asked me to write something. It made me feel an obligation to pander to their individual proclivities, or to somehow be complimentary or flattering. But then I had a revelation the other day. Being asked to put words down on a page was a request to see more of me. Yes, in fact, being asked for a new post, or a story is a voyeuristic act on behalf of the petitioner. And I, being a closeted exhibitionist, should be quite pleased to oblige.

Writing is sometimes a difficult task. These words here are a reflection of what makes me me. Left to my own devices with no direction in which to write, the path becomes the sum of sub-conscious tendencies that are exclusively mine. No agenda. No endgame. Just this guy. And to know that this guy is a topic of interest, enough for someone to ask for an unabridged look inside, is a sincere compliment. And the difficulty comes in being honest about what is written. Being unabridged to another, the reader, demands being unabridged with the writing-self.

My life is scary, to be blunt. No, I don't live in crime or poverty ridden areas, but this pervasive fear fills a small oil lamp in the back of my mind. It's a small flicker of dread rather than a blindingly bright horror. But it's always there, chasing away the shadows of certainty. It's enough of a reminder that what I have can be lost that I'm never positive that I have a handle on things. Yes, having been told that I once had the appearance of a man who 'had his shit together', I know that I'm really just an ice skater balanced on a thin edge of relative success.

I grew up in a faith that said my life would end and my knowledge would cease. Perhaps I would be brought back to life by a God that intended me to live forever, but that depended a great deal on what endeavors I sought in this life. Contrary to that faith, I have grown more agnostic as I've gotten older. I do not know if there is a God, let alone one who cares. The religion of my youth has become insufficient to explain many of the things that science is learning. The red shift of cosmic expansion, Higgs-Bosun, habitable exoplanets, and the eventual death of Sol, all point to a system of expiration and renewal. So I ponder frequently an inverse of Pascal's Wager. If there is no God, I have to make this life count. What I do and leave for people to remember will be the only chance I have had. If I'm wrong and there is a God, then a life lived in the pursuit of meaningful contribution can't be a bad thing.

But what is meaningful? Is it love? People inspired to be better? Or is it just a positive influence on others' lives? I don't know what makes me a good person and I agonize over doing the wrong thing with the few years I have. I worry about doing the wrong things for my kid and pursuing the wrong relationships.

The odd thing about life is that it is a series of choices that you cannot go back and unmake. At the end of your life, you are left with the choices that you pursued and the consequences that they rendered. I don't want to get to my twilight years and think that I didn't do the best I could with the time that I had. I don't want to remember old faces with longing. I want to remember them with pride. I don't want any of the paths I take to be ones that I later question.

But I don't get that luxury. My days will march forward, unfettered. In the thirty or forty years to come, each day will be another step in the journey, and I will eventually run out of 'tomorrows'. And each day I will ask myself, "Did you do something worthwhile today?" Each day I will ask myself, "Are you a good man?"

Am I a good man?

The mirror does not answer. And because of that, I am afraid.

When I'm Gone

The words rang out from the radio like a thunderclap. They exploded from the General Motors standard-issue speakers, and had I not been strapped into my seat, they'd have surely tossed me aside like so much rubbish. Only a few simple lyrics from a song so appropriately written could have such an effect.

I had an opportunity recently to go to the mountains of norther Arizona. They are smallish for what I would call mountains. They are rolling hills with many trees. Much different from the harsh and stony hills I knew in Colorado in my youth. The scrub desert became more lush the farther north I went. There was even a remarkable change when honest-to-God trees suddenly became the preferred ground cover. Arizona actually looked like a place full of life.

It took over three hours to reach the little mountain town of Pinetop. But tucked back in a neighborhood off the main drag, there was a cabin that was a little too close to the neighbors for my taste. However, the beauty of the place wasn't diminished in any way that I could tell. The faint scent of pine lingered in the air, lending some legitimacy to the town's name. And one could barely put a hand on one tree without being able to reach another.

For a long time I just stood among the trees and missed. I missed in a way that one misses a lost loved one, or a favorite pizza that is only available in one place. I missed the woods of my home in Missouri. I missed the scent of flora decaying on the forest floor. I missed the dampness of vegetation. I missed long walks along the spines and valleys of hills. I missed wading along creeks. I missed giving snakes and squirrels the respect of a wide berth. I missed, but not in a sorrowful way. I missed in a way that brought the comfort of fond memories that were still bright and vivid.

Every place I looked seemed perfect. Every boulevard I drove down was idyllic. The trees and grasses that lined the road ways were lush and vibrant. The glens and glades that flanked the hills were like those right out of a novel. If there were a more picturesque place to be, I couldn't imagine it.

I've thought about that place a lot in the last three weeks. It's kind of a shame that the weekend was so short. I could easily lose myself in that setting for time indefinite. And then there was this line from a song that made it all seem a little drab by comparison.

It's got mountains
It's got rivers
It's got woods to give you shivers
But it sure would be prettier with you

Would it?

I don't know for sure. But I can surely imagine. And it certainly would not have been less.

The Bygones Wept

Dreams are frightful things. They often are senseless and confusing without ever being meaningless.  The glimpses of our souls that we take from them are like the images we see when looking at the world through a kaleidoscope. They are jumbled, fragmented, without context, but strikingly beautiful and intense. And at times, completely overwhelming.

There are secrets locked away within our minds. Truths we've long forgotten. Lies that we've repeated so many times that we don't remember where they began. Sometimes there are pains that have foundations so deep that they can't be seen for the mountains we've built over them. And yet, they're all there, slumbering quietly until a dream tethered by the last binding thread to an era long past wakes you into a sobbing fit of despair.

Some time ago, I learned that the first girl I ever deeply cared for had died of ovarian cancer. It was years after the fact that anyone I still knew learned of this, but my mom (in a persistent display of brain-mouth filter deficiency) made sure I was notified. As I hung up from that phone call, I told my wife what the purpose of the call was, to which she calmly inquired, "How do you feel about that?"

I know why she asked. She wanted to know if I still harbored any feelings for the girl. But in fact, it has been nigh on fifteen years since my last contact with her. Whatever feelings I had were long forgotten. She had carried on with her life and whatever I knew about it was the stuff of myth and legend. These days, all that I can find is an obituary that tells me that she remarried at least once and had a son. To a casual observer, it is a perfectly forgettable footnote that looks like all of the others on the flimsy newsprint of a small Illinois town.

There are very few days that stand out in my memory as holding watershed moments. The day I met her is one I remember in an unfortunate amount of detail. I was 14 years old and it was a Saturday in very early February. To say that I know the exact date would be accurate, but serves no purpose. I had returned home after staying the night at a friend's house the night before. As soon as I walked in the door, I dropped my things and started getting ready to go to my cousin's wedding that afternoon.

I always took a duffel bag for my things. My dad was due to head to Lincoln, Nebraska on Sunday and decided to use that same bag. Had I known, I'd have been more careful. In the bottom of that bag was a floor panel that provided support. Under that panel was a copy of the February 1978 issue of Playboy. I happened to be taking a shower when my bag was unpacked. My brother stepped in to apply a generous amount of Ralph Lauren's Polo. "Prepare yourself man," he said with brotherly understanding, "Dad opened your bag."

I stood there for several minutes wracked with terror about how I was going to explain it. I did eventually get out and make my mea culpas. And graciously, the issue died without much more discussion. Had there been much more, I'd have had to explain that I'd stolen it the night before from my friend's dad. Many a long conversation would have had to follow.

The wedding would provide enough distraction that very little was ever said about it again. And so, at a church of roughly 150 seats in Edwardsville, Illinois, I watched my cousin marry. At the reception, I would become reacquainted with a girl that I had not seen for a few years, and barely remembered. But that night was mine. We danced and talked all evening and became good friends. In the years that followed, we wrote many letters to each other, went to concerts, and sought each other out at mutual events. As often happens, the relationship was unbalanced and I was not on the receiving end.

There were times that I would sit and look at her graduation picture for hours. The letters that she sent were always kissed with a hint of perfume, and that scent lingered long after the letters stopped coming. One of the last was to tell me that she was seeing someone and that they intended to marry. The words "that probably disappoints you" leaped off the page at me like a gunshot. It was filled with recognition of my feelings, but also the assurance that those feelings would be fruitless. I didn't bother to write back that time.

I don't remember the feelings fading, or how long it took. I only know now that they once existed. But my life went on as they all do. I've had my trials and triumphs, and will continue to have more. I cannot recall the last time I went to bed thinking of her. Nor can I think of a time when I will close my eyes and think of her.

So to be roused from my sleep a few nights ago by a dream of her was both astonishing and troubling. The dream was clear enough to feel. We were in old haunts where we would sometimes cross paths. We spoke in the familiar way that we once did. And in a quiet moment, with teary eyes, I told her that I'd heard she was dead. She smiled sadly at me and touch my cheek. And all she said was, "I'm sorry."

I woke from my sleep to the sound of my own struggling sobs. I felt more broken in that moment than I had any right or reason to feel. It wasn't until then that I felt any particular sorrow about her death. And my mourning at that moment was not because of feelings that still persisted. No, my tears fell for my watershed moment that had lost half of its value. I would be lying if I said that I had not longed to see her again, or that given the opportunity I would take it now. But if I were to see her, I would not honestly be looking for a glimmer of the feelings that I once held for her to be suddenly returned.

I grieved for the once heady days when I learned what I wanted to feel for someone for the rest of my days. I grieved for the loss of a teacher that helped me to learn that losing my innocence was not to be feared. I grieved for a son and father that lost a wonderful woman. I grieved for a day and the catalyst it bore being a memory that only one person would now carry.

Those bygone days are long behind me, and the sorrow that belongs to those days shall remain in their stead, the signpost of days that were worth living.