No Regrets

No Regrets

July 21, 1940
As I lay here, an old man, dying, I have compiled surviving journal entries of mine from when I was a boy---entries about the only woman I ever loved.  Never in my life could I fall in love again because I spent my entire life thinking about her.  The entries speak for themselves.               

July 22, 1892
         It was July 21,          1892, yesterday, when I finally heard that she had died.  Just before I began writing this now, I folded the letter again.  I needed to just put it away for I knew nothing else could come form it.  I had memorized it anyway.  A tear came to my eye as I turned off the gas lamp at my reading desk.  I had re-read that letter countless times while sitting there since I received it.  I am still in disbelief.  Yesterday made two from the first time we had met and I still remembered every last detail of her.  I thought back on everything, it seemed, and I realized I had never given her the chance she deserved in my life.  I had always seen her as a risk that I couldn’t take.  A life without risks, I’ve learned, is a life without meaning.  My life now has no meaning, as the risk I never took is gone.  I would never again have the chance to take that risk.  The letter was the factor I needed to explain it all---to explain why I had not heard from her.  I checked the post yesterday.  It seemed I checked it too often and to no avail.  But yesterday I had received a small envelope.  I broke the red wax seal and unfolded the decrepit off-white paper.  The message was short and to the point, as her family had always been towards me.  It read:
Greg,
We regretfully write to inform you that our daughter, Monica, entered mortality while in the care of the Alabama Insane Asylum.  We are sorry for your loss and ours.  With Monica being the tie between you and our family we find it unnecessary for you to again contact us now that the tie is broken. 

Catherine Taylor

She was gone.  I knew now that I had loved her.  I guess I never felt it before.  I felt it now, more than ever, and I felt the emptiness that followed like there was a hole just below my stomach.  I have heard it said that the first way to miss out on life is to live one’s life in regret.  Before I received that letter yesterday, I believe I had lived by that creed.  Yesterday I realized I had missed out on the one I loved the most---the only one I had ever loved.  And for that I feel the deepest regret.  Until next time.  Greg.
…two years prior
July 21, 1890
Today I saw Tiffany again.  Tiffany has been my saving grace for the past few weeks.  I know that she is the key factor that has saved me from the insanity caused from still living at home.  It is enough to drive anyone mad enough for the heaviest care at Bryce’s Alabama Insane Asylum. Perhaps that wording is a little strong, but I am just as thankful for finding someone who I can share my thoughts with.  I would like to consider myself a well-educated young man.  I will soon complete high school and attend the local public university, the University of Alabama unlike anyone else in my family.  I then plan to continue schooling in order to be a physician.  The University is in the small near-by town of Tuscaloosa.  Tiffany already attends the University and I can not wait until I may join her there. 
Tiffany and I walked to a restaurant in town today.  Although I hardly ever eat anywhere besides my mother’s kitchen, Tiffany insisted that I have lunch with her and her friend Monica.  I agreed.  For lunch we enjoyed a classic southern cuisine, basically the conglomeration of what my mother had cooked everyday since I was born.  I did, however, enjoy meeting Monica.  Monica had made that god-awful lunch worth while.  She was gorgeous.  She was tall and blonde and blue-eyed.  We talked for hours, Monica and I---and I guess Tiffany was there too.  Monica amazed me.  She intrigued me.  I saw something that I had never seen in anyone before.  The hardest thing is I did not even see whatever it was in Tiffany.  I could have talked to Monica for hours.  I had just met her and we talked as though we were old friends.  The worst part of the whole lunch ordeal was when Tiffany said it was time to go.  We left about three o’ clock.  The sun was hidden, but the humidity was stifling.  Tiffany and I left, waving goodbye to Monica as we walked away.  Monica yelled, “It was nice to meet you, Greg.”  We were too far to see what I could have sworn I saw.  A wink? And a smile?  I tried to ignore the small flutter in my stomach, wiped the worry off my face, smiled and looked up at my Tiffany.  I grabbed her hand.  I love Tiffany.  I do.  We have a great time when we are together.  I could not be happier.  Today was a great day.  I do have to admit that lunch with Tiffany’s friend must happen again.  Until next time.  Greg.

July 28, 1890
         I’ve seen monica everyday for the past week.  I guess that is why I haven’t found the time to write lately.  Today I met Monica at one of my favorite childhood places, a place Tiffany did not even know about----a rope swing.  The swing would fly out over a small puddle we called a creek.  It was and is my favorite spot to think or just escape from the hassle of life these days.  I could have used an escape from the chaos inside me.  I’m so confused because I feel like I need Monica to talk to.  I want her there.  But Tiffany.  I can’t believe I’m even having thoughts about Monica.  I’m not.  Tiffany is my everything.  I plan to attend the University and be married to her in just a few short years and nothing will change that.  I guess that fact is why I felt the need to talk to Monica today, there at my favorite spot.  We needed to talk.  We needed to figure things out.  There was almost nothing she could do, I sensed.  She was a pawn; I was the player.  She and I both knew it was time to talk. 
         “So,” she said as I pushed her far over the creek, her tightly grasping the rope.
         “So,” I replied.  It was enough to tell her that it was ok to continue what she had to say.  I knew what was coming.  I had caused this situation. 
         “So, where do you see this going?” she was very straightforward. It seemed she never hesitated with serious issues, so this question was anticipated.  I decided to play it dumb.
         “What are you talking about?” I asked.
         “You and I.”
         “Monica, I have a girlfriend.  You know that.  We can’t do that to Tiffany.”
         “Well, how can you say that after seeing me all week behind her back.  We have seen each other every day, Greg----and I’ve loved every minute of it.”
         “Monica knows that I have been seeing you lately.  Well, she knows about a lot of it.”  I paused, then continued.  “We are friends, Monica.”
         “And that’s all you want from me?”
         “Yes.”
         I walked her back home.  Never at a loss for words, her quietness on the way home was murdering.  She could always talk or find something that would break a silence, but on the way home that day she said nothing.  I thought the whole way back.  I knew what I had done to her was not necessarily fair, but this was how it had to be.  She knew I had a girlfriend.    I did not intend to have led her on.  I did not want her to feel for me as more than anything but a friend.  She did now.  I knew it too, and I had hurt her.  I guess this is why I write things down.  So I will never make the same mistakes twice.  Until next time.  Greg.

July 12, 1980
I broke up with Tiffany.  We are no longer going steady.  I do not want to marry her anymore.  I have to write to relieve myself of these feelings.  Tiffany has turned into someone else.  I told her about Monica liking me and she became very jealous.  That was not long after I had that discussion with Monica.  I have not even talked to Monica since that day.  She stops by the house every once and a while, but I always tell my mother to tell her that I am sleeping.  Tiffany however believed that I still saw Monica constantly.  She refused to listen to anything I had to say.  She was not angry.  She was hurt.  I did not mean to hurt her.  She was my moon goddess.  That is what I had always called her ever since she and I were looking at the stars awkwardly as we never had anything to talk about.  Tiffany asked me if I could give her anything, what would it be?  I told her I would give her stars and the moon.  I had loved Tiffany.  The love is gone.  Until next time.  Greg.



July 21, 1890          
I went by Monica’s house today.  I have not seen her in almost a month, nor talked to her.  She was surprised to see me.  I asked if she could go with me on a walk.  She agreed.  We talked about everything.  It was as if nothing had happened and that we had picked up where we left off.  It was amazing.  I had missed her.  Hearing her voice, seeing her face, smelling her hair---I had missed it all.  She missed me to she said.  I intended to write more, but I am going to see her tonight.  Until next time.  Greg.

July 22, 1890 
         Today was phenomenal disaster.  A beautiful disaster.  It was an unparalleled day that only ended in heartbreak for one of us.  There is no “us”.  What am I saying? When the day started, I couldn’t remember the last time I had experienced so much fun.  I saw Monica today.  We went the entire day together in fact.  We talked about everything we had missed in each other’s lives for the past month and why it had been a month since we had seen each other.
         “Why didn’t you come see me before?” she asked.
“I didn’t feel like I could.  But then I saw you yesterday, and talking to you, Monica, is so easy.  We never have to think about what we are saying.  I have never been able to talk to anyone the way I talk to you.  I open my mouth and words start flowing.  I remembered that as soon as I knocked on your door yesterday.  I wanted that back.”  We talked all day today as well.  Then tonight, I walked her home as I had done the night before.  She sat down on a bench in the moonlight outside her plantation style house.  I sat beside her.
         “So,” she began.
         “So,” I repeated.
         “Where do you see this going?”  I started to move uncomfortably and she noticed.  “Greg, this entire month that I’ve been away from you all I’ve thought about was you.  Do you know that?  Do you feel the same?”
         “We are friends, Monica.”
         “Greg, when is the last time you could talk to someone like you talk to me?  Do you not enjoy spending time together?  You must.  We have spent the past two days together.”
         “Yes, I do Monica, but…”
         “No, I don’t know what the difference is.  Why can’t you make a commitment to me?  I couldn’t see anyone else.  I only want to see you.”
         “I can’t give you a commitment.”
That is when she ran inside and closed the door.  I left, came straight home, and started to write.  Writing always helps me to get things out.  That way maybe I can figure out some of all this going on.  Why couldn’t I give her the commitment that she wanted?  I could give it to Tiffany without even feeling for her.  I think Monica was… It’s just that…. I truly like Monica.  I could see myself with her for a long time.  But forever?  Forever is so long.  Things with her are perfect.  I just can’t be with her.  I’m just scared.
August 1, 1890
I went to Monica’s house today.  I knocked on the door.  She answered it. 
“Can we talk?” I asked.  She nodded uneasily, but followed me out to the same bench where we had sat in the moonlight less than two weeks before. 
“So,” I began.
“So,” she followed.
“I guess what I’m tryin to say is---“ I paused, trembling in speech, and continued “that school starts in just a few weeks.  So maybe we could see each other a few times between now and then?  I know I haven’t visited in a while, but I think we should see each other.  Why not?”
Her response scared me.  It was as if she used every ounce of guilt I felt for jilting her the first time and the second and used it like a poison to burn at my insides.”
         “ I don’t want to be involved with you again, Greg.  I can’t let myself get involved.”  She stood up from the bench, turned, and leaned against a tree.
         “ I ‘m not asking for you to be involved.  I just want to see you, to talk to you.”
         “You don’t get it.”
         “What do I not understand about this, Monica?”
“Greg, I like you.  I haven’t stopped liking you.  But every time I become close to you, I have gotten hurt.  I am not doing it again.”
         “All I’m asking is to see you.”
         “You don’t understand, Greg.” 
She went inside and closed the door.  If only I had taken the chance while I had it.  Maybe I would see her tomorrow.  Maybe I could ask her to go eat.  Maybe.  Until next time.  Greg.

January 2, 1891
         I have seldom thought about Monica consciously since the last time I saw her, that hot day in August when she told me I did not understand and closed the door.  Everything reminds me of her though---subconsciously if you will.  Her family never liked me, Monica had explained once, because of the times they had caught her crying over me.  When she told me, I was flattered that she cried over me.  I went by her house thrice the other day:  in the morning, the afternoon, and the evening.  I had done this now everyday for the past two weeks.  Not a sign of her.  The light in her room remains off.  Where is she?  I miss her.  Until next time.  Greg.

She died at Bryce’s Insane Asylum.  She wasn’t insane.  They had admitted her sick I heard later in life by word of mouth.  She had taken ill and with the illness suffered a high fever.  The fever alone should not have killed her.  It should have left her brain dead at worst.  She was founding laying peacefully in bed one morning cold as ice, with to hands clasping her chest.  Do not make the same mistakes I have.  Do not live your life in regret.  I write this so that someone may read it, and save he may be saved from all of this.  It is to late for me.  It is my fault.  I know that she died of a broken heart. 
Do everything that you want to do today, because tomorrow may be to late.  There may be no next time. Greg.