He was a Rembrandt; a pitcher who could ‘paint the corners.’ He was a living Michelangelo’s David. And he was mine for a dreamy season of time that linked us together. We cooked, surfed, rode bikes, played tennis, sang off-key; every song on the Eagle’s Desperado album. He read Jonathan Livingston Seagull out loud to me. For my birthday he gave me a simple gold cross. For Christmas, a Bentwood rocker. We set a date, ordered invitations; I bought my bleached-muslin wedding dress. But that very night I had a nightmare that was so horrific, it sucked the life out me. I completely panicked, called off the wedding and rushed back to school. He got a steady job at the Grain Elevators. I studied furiously, graduated quickly and kept on running. February of 1978, I heard during a long-distance phone call from my broken-hearted mom that there had been an explosion 40 days earlier. He had been at work that evening. He was only 26. He died; crushed very violently; and hopefully, suddently. It has taken me thirty-seven years to finally read this dreaded Death Certificate. It lists the Cause(s) of Death. It is much too graphic, too painfully horrible to repeat. I still wear my cherished gold cross. I rock in my treasured chair. I never told him why I ran away. I never had to; I know he already knew. He wanted our love to live honored in my heart forever. It does.
MB, this was equistly beautiful. So lucky to have ever even felt this kind of love for someone.
Thanks friend. Yes. I was lucky to know love. And I am lucky to know YOU>