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What I Never Had 2006-02-09

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I've always understood that I'm a victim of my own making over some things.

Pink tulle prom dresses, bouquets of blossoms delivered to your door, dancing in the moonlight, love letters from secret admirers. I'm a sucker for all of it, from the hokey to the mundane. Overly Hallmarked displays of romance have always been my Achilles heel, and my heart beats and swells to its hackneyed, overplayed tune.

And then, Valentine's Day comes, and there are no declarations of secret love or bunches of posies, and I get frustrated and lonely, and then there's chocolate and maybe gin, and possibly a movie starring Meg Ryan, and then there's some vomiting, and then I wake up on the fifteenth of February and start all over again.

I mean, it's the hope, isn't it? For the desperately lonely, or for the Singletons who are having too much fun to settle down, or, like me, a watered down mix of the two, it's the hope that keeps us going. Well, of course the right one will come along, we think to ourselves.

A few weeks after Frankie died, my sister and I were doing a little talking, though to be honest, it was the kind of talking thatís gushy and sinusy, and full of Kleenex and moans. And also, there was crying. She told me that once upon a time, Frankie had confessed to her that he didn't see himself finding someone, getting married, sharing a future with someone.

Grief and mourning is so strange; you just never know whatís going to set you off. On some days, I can look at his picture and remember that horrible night and contain the worst of my emotions to a shake of the head. And then, five minutes later, Iíll see a loaf of bread, remember him making a sandwich, and my insides will wither up with pain. You just never know.

And thatís where Iím at now. For the last little while, Iíve been horribly consumed with the thought that Frankie was lonely and had no hope of falling in love, or having someone fall in love with him. I hate that he had no hope. This moment I never witnessed, when he admitted it to my sister, and how his face must have registered a mix of pain and false dismissal is on a constant loop in my head. I donít know what hurts more Ė that he couldnít confess something like that to me, and that I couldnít find some way to fix it for him, or that he felt like that in the first place.

I thought I needed a salve for the pain of what I donít have anymore; Iím beginning to realize that I need one for the parts I didnít know about.

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iimage: Jack Vettriano