My lover left. Twenty years on, does it matter?
For those around whom the water swirls
The message came, not heralded by the cries of seabound eagles or the crashing of waves, but in the most ordinary of ways, arriving in my inbox with a small, prosaic “ping.”
Him. Ten years later.
Suitable in a lot of ways, this inbox approach. We were not a grand affair, rather a friendship turned loverlike, a little, maybe. But he was the first, my First Romance, even such as it was.
Long ago, and all through one year, I knew him, thought about him, cared for him, maybe loved him. My heart beating faster, my breath catching when he looked at me. And now? I blinked at the computer screen.
And yet it was a nice note, gentle, water swirling around my ankles. He had seen my name on a byline. I was still writing? How lovely. So was he; he had married; here was a picture of his daughter. Perhaps we might meet again?
No: but my own indifference to this, his contacting me, came to me as a surprise, a splash of sea and then the moment afterwards, when you realize that it is cold, the moment before that cold fades away.
I loved this man, once, years ago. And now I did not.
I did not delete the note, just moved on to the next email, work-related.
Sidney Pollard wrote of the passing of time, how two centuries ago people began to see this as progress, to see society as improving, fast-flowing water, better technology, terraforms, truths; more science, knowledge; better, faster, higher, stronger.
This view is still around today, even in our personal lives. Progress: what we call it when our hearts hurt less at someone’s leaving. There is the idea of getting over someone, as if he is a body of water that must be swum, and we will be better for so doing.
There is the idea of learning, isn’t there?
I loved him. Then I learned better, more about myself. I grew up.
Getting this note, though, I wondered about love, how the lessening of it may not indicate progress. This man drifted in and out of my life like flotsam; when he left I was angry, upset. Now I am not.
Before progress there was another idea, from the Latin word eunomia, good order, stasis. The Romans, and many other subsequent civilizations, believed that life should stay the same. Hearts broken, but in the best of worlds, these small pings would not matter. Nothing would change; no improvements would be had. People would do what they have always done. The tide rises, and it falls. Life goes on.
It is not ten years ago now, but twenty. I live in a different place; in fact, it is four cities later, four moves, with my life shifting a little, each time.
Even the technology has changed; you don’t get emails with pings anymore.
But I remember the drama of this, my long-ago semi-love affair, the way his eyes lit on me when he smiled, the corners of them crinkling a little and then smoothing out, my indrawn breath, our skin soft with youth. I remember how I wanted him to love me, how maybe he did, and then how he didn’t.
I remember how this hurt, his lack of love.
But I was surprised then, and I am surprised now, to find how little he matters, ten years on, twenty, his name carved on me but lightly, the marks of water on sand, in the moment before the tide returns.
I didn’t write back, not at all, not even a note. What did it matter? What would I have said? My love for him was like a tide, moving, wreckage in its wake, flotsam, jetsam. The lessening of it was the tide’s return, how the wreckage is covered up, quietly, smoothly, so you forget it; you forget the shapes of it, the love-pains, the smiles. Driftwood on the water and in a breath, it is gone.
