I learned yesterday that the love of my life died this past August.

While checking something on my calendar, November 8th rang a distant bell in my mind. Then I remembered — it was the birthday of the young man I dated when I was 19 and he was 22, and whom I never forgot. He was the one I should have married . . . and would have, but for the religion thing. His family were devout Catholics, and I’m not. It didn’t matter to him, to me, or to my family, but it mattered a great deal to his. Especially his mother.

His name was Denis, and I never got over him. Even though I had other boyfriends, eventually married, had children, a career, traveled, and had adventures, Denis was always there, in the back of my mind — the standard against whom I measured all other men.

And when I Googled his name yesterday, and saw his obituary, I felt the loss as though he had been a part of my life throughout all of these years. And I felt regret — regret that I hadn’t fought against his parents’ prejudices, or tried to convince him to try harder.

But those were different times, and I hadn’t yet learned that sometimes it’s necessary to be aggressive, and to fight for what you feel is right.

So today I turned to the words of a 19th-century American poet for insight into why I should still feel such regret after so many decades:

“For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: ‘It might have been!’”

– John Greenleaf Whittier, “Maud Muller”

And I wonder, again, how different my life might have been, if only . . .

Requiescat in pace, Denis. I hope you had a good life.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
11/8/26