Here in the Midwest, springtime is busting through. Crocuses and dandelions dot the terrain with bursts of bright color, and April showers work to ensure the timely arrival of tulips and other blossoms come May.
Tennyson wrote that a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love in spring. I am feeling a bit ancient, but my thoughts are in tune with the season, though for the wrong reasons; my sweetheart and I are parting.
Here in the Midwest, springtime is busting through. Crocuses and dandelions dot the terrain with bursts of bright color, and April showers work to ensure the timely arrival of tulips and other blossoms come May.
Tennyson wrote that a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love in spring. I am feeling a bit ancient, but my thoughts are in tune with the season, though for the wrong reasons; my sweetheart and I are parting.
While we are doing what little we can to be loving and supportive to one another during this transition, it is difficult. The challenges are pretty much the same as when I first suffered heartbreak. There is plenty of emptiness and sorrow to plod through. One must set aside adequate time for longing, moping, and crying.
One must also relearn how to interact with the world as one person. Without realizing, over the past 18 months I had placed most everything about the present and future in the context of the two of us together.
Her city sort of felt like my city, too. The restaurants she enjoyed were our restaurants, as were the hiking trails, performance venues, and even the grocery stores. And I flattered myself that her two cats considered me part of their family.
In any vaguely imagined days to come, I firmly linked my dear one and myself for what was to be. We would eventually find a way to live in the same locale. Our remaining years would be spent together, and being good to one another would be our common goal. You really get used to including “the two of us” in every conscious and unconscious thought.
There is an emotional whiplash in having to deal with today and look toward tomorrow without her. Then there’s that awful feeling of loss to no longer have that special someone who feels “that way” about you.
The playlist in my head is solely about heartbreak, from “Can’t Get Used to Losing You,” “Crying,” “Lovesick Blues,” “Yesterday,” “Without You,” and “Heartbreak Hotel” to “Since You’re Gone,” “It’s Too Late,” and that most syrupy of lost-love songs, “Breakin’ Up Is Hard to Do,” for which I owe Neil Sedaka a punch in the nose.
But all is not lost. It is somehow encouraging to know I could still fall head-over-heels in love. And despite the sadness happening now, I have a treasure of sweet memories from this very fine romance. I did real well on that trade.
I find comfort in, of all things, an episode of South Park, when the character Butters suffers love and loss. Talking with his friend, Stan, and some kids from school, Butters reflects:
“… I’m sad, but at the same time I’m really happy that something could make me feel that sad. It’s like, it makes me feel alive, you know? It makes me feel human. And the only way I could feel this sad now is if I felt somethin’ really good before. So I have to take the bad with the good, so I guess what I’m feelin’ is like a, beautiful sadness.”
So, here’s to being human, to taking a chance on connecting with another person. And if it falls apart, here’s to accepting sorrow as a result of the great joy that once was. Here’s to taking the bitter with the sweet. It is absolutely worth it.
Pat Grimes, a former South Bay resident, writes from Ypsilanti, Mich. He can be reached at pgwriter@inbox.com
