I always cry. Sometimes I weep. Regrets, I have a few. But mostly, I’ve done it my way. Which, however, always included her way too.
My first true love was at sixteen. We had two dates, one kiss. The first date was to see a romantic Saturday afternoon matinee. I was too shy to even hold her hand. The kiss came in the basement of the church. Our final date was the senior prom. Since I was three years older, her parents made it our last. Our love for one another remains today, as mostly unspoken. When Sinatra sings The Way You Look Tonight, my heart still miscues and my eyes reconnect to the glorious vision of her in blue taffeta, with my pink corsage on her wrist.
The first time I saw Diane she was wearing a white blouse, white shorts, and walking towards my car carrying a tennis racquet. Diminutive and pretty, like a delicate flower. We married ninety days later. Almost immediately Come Fly With Me became our Forty-year anthem. Early on, I was unsure why someone as wonderful as her would want to be with me. But I eventually learned that prudent, responsible persons, like Diane, often choose goofy people like me because of their own closet goofiness. Us goofys want to be with people like Diane because, on some level, we know we need light steering. For a time, after she died. I was rudderless. Just sitting in my easy chair, no one in the place except me, my memories, and my tears.
Through online dating, I met several lovely and delightful ladies. But only one captured my heart before we met. When I first saw D. F. on Match.com, I copied her photo, and showed it to a friend. A friend, who through from some strange quirk of fate, was the son of my first love. He convinced me to contact D. F. by saying that any woman with the confidence to appear barefoot, on a dating site, was definitely worth a try. Luck was my lady that night. For six eclectic years, she was the Sunshine Of My Life. Our love, however, is timeless. I still long for her. Weep for her. But know to do so at a distance.
My last love was not who she thought she was. Nor was I the fantasy she wanted me to be. We loved, but always slightly past one another. We were affectionately connected in the day. Strangers In The Night. Those early hours of the morning, when my melancholy rises, are when I miss her most of all.
Sinatra always makes me cry, but my experiences give me hope that someday there will be someone new for me to watch over and Someone To Watch Over Me.
In the meantime, Set’em up Joe. Play me a song and make it Sinatra and sad