I turned 42 in February. With even the most rosey of outlooks that’s middle aged at best. I had a conversation with my niece about two weeks ago and midstream she off handedly stated something that, at the time, upset me. But I thought long and hard about it later and realized the bittersweet truth about it. I’m 42 and here I am finally understanding who I was and what I was feeling back when I was 18 years old. Coming to terms with decisions made, constructs of my faith and character and of how I would judge those around; both those that I loved dearly and those that were merely bit players so that I might fit them all snugly into who and how I believed my world to be. With all of my conversing and writing and prayers, debates, arguments and negotiations I am just now taking my first step into the truth.
I loved him. He was my first and my only. The one that mattered and changed me. And because I have never understood this till now you and I are pretty much going to be dealing with this for the first time together. So let’s go back. It’s Doverton. 1993. And there is a blizzard making life hell for everyone but us….