Over the next few days and nights after the disturbing discovery, my main question was, “Why does it even matter to me?”
I didn’t lose sleep over it—it’s almost impossible to lose sleep with as little as I get. Still, it was not one of the myriad things that tumbled through my brain in the night’s darkness. But when it did cross my mind in the day’s brightness, a twinge of sadness pricked my heart quickly and, most likely, snickered away.
The news came innocently, through small chitchat at a high school football game just before kick-off. Something I mentioned off-hand brought the information forth.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” a family member said with a mixture of nonchalance and happiness. “Guess who we saw at a ballgame the other night?”
Her answer left me speechless for a moment.
My mouth dropped, and my eyes widened. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t think about it.”
She talked about how handsome, nice, friendly, and fun he was. He hugged the entire family, and he was overjoyed to see them.
After that complete lowdown, I inquired, “Did he ask about me?”
She shook her head, turning to the 50-yard line where the team was lining up. “He didn’t ask me. Maybe he asked someone else.”
She mentioned other members who had talked to him at length.
Bobby Lee, so named because a distant cousin had been Robert E. Lee, had been my shadow for over five years.
Sometimes, I would answer the phone to hear him singing, “Do you know you are my sunshine?” He was funny and had a wit so quick that you would have thought his intelligence might have made him class valedictorian. It did not. As I recall, he was in the back row.
He was in the middle of five guys who would be my flirtations from high school to college to a few years after graduation. Of those five, he, sadly, is the only one left standing. My high school and college sweethearts died in their early forties of early cancer.
The last two died in air crashes – one in an airplane, the other in a helicopter. They were in their thirties.
It is true when people leave us before the strands of their hair have turned silver or wrinkles have begun to crowd their faces, we always remember them in their youthful beauty and, always in the snapshot of those years, I, too, am young and gloriously happy because sorrow had yet to come calling.
And then, audaciously, returning time after time.
But one of them survives from that time long ago. He moved away many years ago, so our paths never crossed. I went to the funeral home when his mother died, but he wasn’t there. Before that, I always took it to her whenever I found something that belonged to him.
Except for the big, thick scrapbook that is stored in my office. His mother proudly put together newspaper clippings of all his remarkable athletic achievements. It is priceless, and one day, when I find out how, I will get it back to him.
“Why does this bother you?” Tink asked.
“For two reasons: I brought him into our family. They loved him, but after over 20 years of no contact, no one thought to tell me about seeing him. Secondly, he didn’t inquire about me.
Ours was a bittersweet parting. Not ugly. We cried but agreed it was best.”
Tink laughed, “Baby, you’re all over the internet and television. He knows you’re still beautiful and you’re very successful. He didn’t ask because he knew.”
Still, for a few days, it lingered in my thoughts.
Perhaps because the other four have left this vale of tears and sorrow, it contributes to the pain.
I only hope his hands will again one day hold that precious scrapbook.
Ronda Rich is the author of the new bestseller, St. Simons Island: A Stella Bankwell Mystery. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free weekly newsletter.