“Have you ever had a difference with a dear friend? How his letters, written in the period of love and confidence, sicken and rebuke you! What a dreary mourning it is to dwell upon those vehement protests of dead affection! What lying epitaphs they make over the corpse of love! What dark, cruel comments upon Life and Vanities! Most of us have got or written drawers full of them. They are closet-skeletons which we keep and shun.”

Vanity Fair, William Thackeray

In my post of September 18, I briefly mentioned J, my Love from year’s past.  N was J’s best friend and seeing N again, along with digging through old letters to find something for him, brought to light once again these memories of tragic love that I had so conveniently tucked away.  Ours was a tempestuous and impossible devotion that spanned the years from 1989 to 1998.  It could hold it’s own next to Heathcliff and Catherine or Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy in its passion, drama, rancor and love.  This tale of love is written in the poems and paintings he sent me, as well as my journal entries, and the letters we exchanged throughout the years – all of it kept by me.

This weekend, I decided to gather it all and write a book– not for publication and most likely not for others eyes, but so I can put it all down, once and for all, to organize, catalog and lay it to rest – before I forget.  I realize my story would be dissimilar to his.   I’ve completed 39 pages, mostly taken from my journals.  N will play a role; he is inextricably linked to my relationship with J.  I cannot publish it here – for fear the wrong person would see.  It’s a book for me, a cleansing of sorts, to put into context the events that forever altered me.