In sympathy, 7/10

Somethings you never hope to find.

In this room where I'm sitting we dabbled with electronic databases, Reference USA among them. You wanted to be a Library Associate. I had just gotten onboard as a librarian, was being schooled on all the databases that we owned that I was unfamiliar with. Match made in heaven. We sat here side by side, poured over all the new stuff that my new compatriot was teaching me at the branch. We kicked around in Reference USA, played with your name, found your family out west. It was fun, sharpened both our skill sets. In the end you didn't get the job, and in the end the compariot who was teaching me those new skills found this place and ratted me out. Funny how things go.

No matter, I was kicking around the net the other day, trying to figure out how you spelled that old last name of yours. Why? Because I wanted to see if I could find an old high school photo of you. So I played around, tossed what I thought was your name at the old high school site you gave me years ago. Nada. Played with it here and there, white pages, college site, all that. Gave up, went to sleep on it. Found you the next day sideways thanks to the Detective. Went back, found you in your h/s roster but no photo. Thought, well, let's take it to the big search engine. That's when I found the obit in Google.

I am sorry, buddy.

So, I sent along a card to your house, simple, clear, not overly religious, a nice message. My name was a scrawl. It was more of a message to say that I understand what you are going through and that if I could I would tell you how I felt myself. A one line Facebook message and a card with a practically illegible name doesn't count for much. I felt alot like the man who, by necessity, has to stand outside the gates of the cemetary, watch the funeral from afar. Isn't my family, isn't my place to grieve, but still, I feel for your loss.

Lo siento, amiga. Viya con Dios.

Your WHMB

Flickers

You once left a note for me on my ottoman, letting me know, as you drove up to the cottage, that you spied a flicker on the crest of the roof of the big house. Today, as I mucked about in the kitchen, as I pulled together a bite to eat, I looked out the nook window and saw a couple flickers on the lawn. Were they a sign? A reminder of the passing of yet another year? Another casual reminder of you? Hard to say but it was a treat all the same.

This week marks seven years, seven summers since I first met you down at the Port Orchard branch. It was a thunder struck moment, that moment you walked in the door of the meeting room. Auspicous? A case of almost too much of a good thing? A bad omen? No, seeing you that day I knew you were the real McCoy. I didn't know it then but I must say that you, my dear, where the finest thing that every happened to me, a real life incident, the kind that a man can say he experienced and lived to tell about, like living through a flaming train wreck or an asteroid strike.

You were like a special delivery letter sent from Venus that day, a visitation, a walk-on role that neither of us ever fully expected you to play, kind of like a person who walks into a foreign embassy, who has a message on the tip of her lips but doesn't quite know how to speak the language. You were the messenger, and I was, well, the willing recipient. Spectators at the window would have loved and understood the moment, it was the kind where you can practically see the writing on the wall, the kind of writing that says, here lies THE fork in the road. It was in our eyes, in the way we sat, fidgeting, like the chairs had loose electrical wiring shorting in our pantgs, in the way that my fellow colleague and the building and the universe all sort of disappeared. Only when you left did the walls in the room return, did the sun come in, did my mind stop reeling.

Was it love? You know, M, looking back, I couldn't tell you at the time, as I was addled, starstruck and wanted to somehow preserve that strange little moment of heartfelt wonder. I knew that there was no language for it so I tucked it away, put away that meeting of ours into some sort of magic bag of mysteries, let the moment settle and simmer away until I met you again later on that fall at All Staff Day. But love? I didn't know the symbols that were in front of me, I could only tell that what I felt for you was deep. I told my new old friend about the other day in a letter. She asked me why the Horsewoman wasn't high on my list, why I couldn't reciprocate the feelings she had for me. She knew of our story and asked me if it had anything to do with you. I told her that love comes one of two ways, either in the form of a lightning strike or is allowed to build up over the years. Either way you know it when it comes. It's pure chemistry, one way or the other, either sent from above in a sort of wild emotional deluge or built up, a sort of elemental chemistry block set that you both put together brick by brick. The Horsewoman has neither going for her, sad, but that's the way it is.

I looked out the window today and know that those flickers were sent to me as a sort of subtle cosmic reminder that love, no matter how it comes or goes, lingers, and that little messengers like those birds are gifts, ones that remind me, now and forever, that love, no matter how it comes, must be honored, cherished and respected.

A bag full of notes, an empty kitchen and you across town in the arms of another, notwithstanding.

Love, your WHMB