Loss

I found out this morning that my first boyfriend died about six months ago of a stroke. He would have been about 33.

Lowell meant a lot to me. He was rough on the outside; he smoked and drank a lot, though ironically he had quit both before he died from it, I was told. But he had a heart of gold, if you'll pardon the cliché. Knowing that people who have been abused (as he had been) often abuse others, he told me that if he ever hit me I should run far away and never come back. But of course he never even spoke an unkind word to me. He was always gentle and loving. I cried and cried when I broke up with him--but I realized I no longer felt the same way about him as I had, and especially since it was a long distance relationship for most of the time, it didn't seem right to keep up a pretense. I did still love him, and have always loved him; it just wasn't the same kind of love anymore.

I lost touch with him, somewhat intentionally at the time, because he still wanted to be together. Then I tried several times over the years to look him up, but was never able to find him. And now I never will. I wish I had had a chance to tell him how much he had changed my life for the better.

I miss you, Lowell. And now I'm crying over losing you a second time.