Mondays. They’re no worse nor any better than any other day for me anymore. Just another day of watching the foolishness around me and thinking, to grab a phrase from Longfellow, “long thoughts.”
Maggie came to mind a moment ago, which prompted this post. She remains the only real mystery in my life.
I was, not to be immodest, a good reporter; good at tracking things down; finding things. Yet, I can find no record of her, save her last address, now more than five years old.
It is almost astonishing to me that someone who was part of my life for more than two decades, almost a third of my life, can vanish. I do not know if she’s married, alive or dead.
Our relationship for that period was certainly not all smooth. Far from it. Perhaps it is the old reporter in me that doesn’t let me put it away. It’s not love, I’m sure of that. It is an inquisitiveness that, while not overwhelming, is manfest from time to time.
It will, no doubt, be a mystery for the remainder of my life.