The worst thing I have lost
The thing about ageing is that “the worst thing I have lost” inevitably becomes a bucket list of not just things lost, but of remorse, self-flagellation, and shoulda-coulda-wouldas. I guess I could go for something grand like TIME, that old tempus fugit thingy, most recently captured at the end of TRUE GRIT with the line, “Time gets away from us.”
And however true that is, I think it’s true of all of us; despite knowing there’s an end game, we refuse to believe the raven when it cries, “The end is near.” No, I won’t go with wasting time.
Neither will I go with lost LOVE. It’s just happened too many times, and how would my lost love be any worse than your lost love?
I’m going to avoid DEATH, too. (As long as I can, ha-ha.) So I have to toss out the deaths of friends, loved ones, and pets, despite the fact that I’ve earned a ton of Frequent Funeral Miles.
And while I’m at it, let’s toss out lost INNOCENSE, lost HOPE, lost FAITH, lost JOBS, and lost SOCKS.
No, too, to the time I left the only copy of my typed manuscript on a train from DC to New York City. All I remember is the opening sentence: “At dawn, the yellow jackets emerged from unseen nests in the moist whorls of grass and flew toward Daisy’s garden.” Okay, so maybe it was just fine to lose that manuscript.
Well, I think you’ve probably guessed by now that, whatever the worst thing I’ve lost is, it’s far too personal and painful for me to share it with you. It’s the thing that lurks in the shadows, the nightmare that repeats, leaving me bolt upright in bed, crying out, soaked in sweat. It is the thing that makes my wife turn to me and say, “What’s that heavy sigh about.” It is the thing that is so personal, I can only say, “Nothing.”