I love clouds and water, so, blue is the color of my life.
I’m also melancholic—that’s the pervading feeling—not in the sense of being depressed, but more in the way of a beautiful sadness.
Still uncertain of what I mean? Well, think of moonlight and you’ll think of me.
I’m a conundrum I admit—elusive as the Abominable Snowman and opaque even to myself.
As my mentor in college once said, “Neil, you’re a drop of reason in an ocean of emotion.”
And he was right.
I'm prone to all kinds of emotional fancies—idle romantic notions.
There was always someone—a girl far off in my life, shimmering in the blue distance, hazy and intangible, hovering in the mist like a gossamer ghost…
But not all these phantasms were ephemeral—one was real, and her name was Sylvia.
I’m sure you noticed I said her name was Sylvia. I hate the past tense of English verbs.
But really, what can be said? We were a couple, but broke up. She went off to Hawaii to sort things out, and while there, died in a surfing accident.
So, you see? It’s all cut and dried.
Q.E.D.
What the hell is Q.E.D.?
Those three letters are very important. They represent closure. We used to write them at the end of proofs in Geometry—Quod Erat Demonstratum.
We demonstrated what we set out to prove—Well, I did – I told you the truth, but a damn lot of good it did for you, or me, or Sylvia, for that matter.
As the song says, ‘She’s gone, and I gotta learn how to face it’—or, in popular parlance—moving on.
That last phrase, moving on sets my teeth on edge—in grammar they call it the present continuous tense if you really care to know.
And that’s what vexes me right now, because I’m not moving on. The truth is, I’m stuck
Ironically, the tense is also called the present progressive, but since I’m obviously not making any progress in getting over Sylvia and ‘moving on’ with my life, that’s moot.
The fact is, I’m done.
“You’ve got to get over this, Neil—Sylvia’s gone.”
Marnie’s staring at me with sad brown eyes.
She was Sylvia’s best friend and confidante. She knows things I don’t know and am afraid to ask—not that she’d tell me, but still, it’s hard not to wonder, especially staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night.
”I know you’re trying to help, Marn—it’s advice I’d give myself, but I’m stuck. Can’t think, can barely eat—haven’t been able to write in a month. Wish I could—it’d be cathartic, but I can’t get anything out.”
She nods and stares out the window at the changing leaves in my backyard.
I know what she’s thinking—she’s tragic as Ophelia. So sad to think they’d lay her in the cold ground.
”Would it help if you got away?”
I look at her, not comprehending her meaning.
“You could go Dover to our cottage—it’s late October and you can’t enjoy the water, but you can walk the beach and the fresh air and change of scene might do you some good.”
I glance at the dishes piled in the sink and on the counter. The house has been neglecting itself, I muse grimly.
“Think about it,” she says, as she rises to go. “Sylvia loved Dover and it was the last time I saw her.”
Her eyes are shining now, and I nod mutely, wanting to hug her while wishing for a giant eraser to expunge the past and all the conditional tenses of our love.
I manage a limp hug and a chaste kiss, and realize how empty my arms feel and how desolate the spaces inside me have grown.
I walk her to her car and she drives away—down a wet road splattered with red and yellow leaves.
And all I can think of is Sylvia’s hair plastered to her forehead when they pulled her from the waves.
