A Match Of A Lifetime
I met her in October of 1974 Boston. I hailed from the West Coast, she came from Middle America, Kansas, and, being a few years older than me, had already completed a Bachelors's. I was barely nineteen, coming off a summer job as a camp counselor in Rhode Island, ready to take on Boston, MA, not only my first home away from home but my first big city. Born in Montana, raised on a small Pacific Northwest Island, I was a diamond in the rough, to say the least, but I didn’t know enough then to feel overwhelmed. I found my way into a roommate situation in South Boston, and she answered the ad for the remaining bedroom. I recall to this day the electric jolt I felt when I opened the door to her knock and we stood three feet apart, greeting one another.
In those days I believed in falling in love. I was hot off a summer of my first love, and looking for my next love. Turns out, I met a creative collaborator. And, to this day, I have lost her, again and again.
I’m looking for her still. My creative collaborator. She who sings and composes beyond expectation. She insists she has no talent. She who declares what all of us feel, that we are of no consequence. I met her in a year of an unprecedented number of tornados, and I often think of her as a figment from the Wizard of Oz. A collaborative creature that was only meant to join me in some of the worst trauma-bonding before that phrase even existed. We exposed together a plethora of hurt and dynamics of tornado force that pulled us into the depths of pain, hurt, and shame. She composed, I wrote, we tacked together a small portion of what should have been. it is a love, a match that I’ve had to walk away from over and over even though the weather of that love is tattooed inside, deep where nothing ever goes away.