What Becomes of the Broken-Hearted? They Freakin' Blog About It

It is spring here in the southern hemisphere … as in: Spring!

There are blossoms appearing (but still being blown off the branches by icy winds); lambs apparently born and frolicking completely ignorant of their big upcoming trip to Europe in time for the Christmas roast; and cute girls are wearing short skirts over-top of their winter tights.

Spring – one of the three seasons we can all agree on a name for. Spring, summer and winter have that commonality. We Kiwis call that other season autumn. North Americans call it fall. I’ve got to say, I think we have the upper hand in this, because “fall” indicates something is going to land on you.

“Come the fall…” makes me think either you’re going to fall down, or something is going to collapse on you. Autumn seems to make more sense. It’s so neutral. It even has that weird “umn” thing going at the end, like it’s not entirely sure of itself. It’s a true season of change.

But autumn is not what I wanted to discuss. Spring is a time of waking from winter’s dormancy, and as a long-term single guy I’ve actually found that the only time of the year when I really find my romance nerves twitching is spring.

It was this emergence of romantic feeling from its annual hibernation which probably caused me to spend an inordinate amount of this past weekend mourning lost love. While watching sport, of course.

It’s a love I treasure, but don’t often talk about. She was beautiful and exciting and full of life. It was like she’d been kissed by the God of Fun. She was a florist who would light up a room brighter than any bouquet.

We used to meet up occasionally and talk; have coffee or lunch, and it was all very chaste.

The major sticking point was that she was engaged. But that was OK, because she told him everything from day one and I, in turn, never tried to break them up. It was totally dysfunctional, but all above board as well.

No, we never kissed. Yes, I did see her naked. Yes, we did go on one (fiancé-sanctioned) date and it was a lot of fun. We both understood the situation: she wasn’t going to break up with him to be with me; and I wasn’t going to ask her to.

Unfortunately, he was Canadian and wanted to take her home to meet the family. They packed up and, oddly, moved to Australia – which is like 1600 miles in the wrong direction. Apparently it was a money thing.

I haven’t heard from her since. But I learned through acquaintances that they parted ways in Australia; then she met somebody else, moved back to New Zealand and is living up north somewhere.

I’m happy to be a fond memory for her. To me, she’s so much more. Why else, I wonder, would my memories return to her when spring so heartlessly jabbed at my slumbering desire for love?

Insert lonely sigh here.