Unattainable

To what or to whom can I liken her? A precious stone? A film star from a bygone era? How about a film star from a bygone era who was known for her love of precious stones? Perfect. Yes, that's what she is. She's perfect. But my analogy is imperfect. Marilyn was typecast as an airhead and easy. My girl is neither of those things. She is all class all the way and all the more inspiring.

She's also unattainable. Whatever went through my head when I thought I could be with her — even though it was only for a brief moment — was madness. I may as well imagine myself with Marilyn Monroe. If she is Marilyn Monroe, then who am I?

To whom should I liken myself? I am Jay Gatsby. But Jay Gatsby is fictional, whereas I am flesh and blood. Then I'm Joe DiMaggio. Okay, go ahead and laugh. I'm not a baseball legend. But I am in love with an unattainable woman, much like Joe DiMaggio was with Marilyn Monroe. He loved her long after their 9-month marriage ended. Yes, that's him below, crying at her funeral. She may have left all of us too early, but she left Joe twice. And he still loved her. 

They were from two different worlds. And were two very different people. Their marriage didn't last long. It was clear to everyone why. The parallels with the relationship I had with my girl are painfully clear. Still, love endures. At least I got some pretty pictures with her. I'll always have that. 

If you still don't believe Joe loved Marilyn until he died, consider this story (Go ahead and read it; I'll wait. And you may cry.) about how he sent her flowers until the day he died (that's 37 years' worth of flowers). But I was never possessive like Joe. I was always willing to let her go, even though I loved her, and dreadfully so. And I was never at the top of my game. I was never a star athlete. I was just a regular guy, and perhaps not even that. I knew from the very beginning she was the perfect girl for me. But I was not the perfect man for her.

Yes, she is and always was unattainable. I've never thought anything but that about her. You may think I'm full of hyperbole, but I believe these words. Call it drunk sincerity if you want. I know the woman I love. I didn't get to have her, but I looked upon her heart and wept a forlorn and destitute cry such as I have never cried. Hers is the most unique and beautiful heart I've ever seen, and once upon a time, it could have been mine. What a loss I felt. What humiliation. What shame. What sadness. 

I wonder if my dying words will contain her name. Will she be there, holding my hand when I pass? Will she even know I'm gone? Will she go before me? If so, I will mourn her doubly. There is no consolation when you love and lose a woman like her. You tell yourself it was a wonderful privilege you had that time with her, but the sense of loss never fades. It's a deep and abiding emptiness you can't ever cover up. That sadness never fades. It's like having a big bomb drop on your front lawn, cratering it all to hell, and you just pretend it never happened. The hole remains, whether you choose to see it or not. Everyone else can see it. You can't lose a woman like that and shrug it off. You are destroyed, rearranged, never the same. You're done. Throw in the towel, bud.

No, she wasn't Marilyn. She was better. And no, I wasn't Joe. I was much worse. Her life has gone on without me. My life stopped the moment she left. My heart went on beating, but it died in me. It melted along with my dreams and hopes of a future with her. I could never match her in anything; she was always better than me. She will always be better. But few men love as hard as I love or with such abandon. Even with a love like that, she was still out of reach.

There are no equals in this world. Certainly, there are no equals in love. One loves more. One thinks they deserve more. Well, I'm the one who knew I didn't deserve her. As far back as I can recall, she was my model of a woman — my prototype. I remember her in middle school, as beautiful as she is now, sitting in front of me at a concert. Oh, I thought the world of her then. Even more so now. I didn't want to screw up her life by being in it. She deserved much better than this tired soul.

Still, I think she loved me, at least for a little while. It's been more than a year since the last time she told me. But those words echo in my heart. I will remember those words until the day I die. That girl loved me. Yes, she did. I may never hear those words again — at least not from her — but I can summon those words anytime I want. That file is safe. When I grow old and infirm and when (God forbid) my memories fade, I will hang on to that one until I die. No one is taking that from me. I may forget my own name, but I'll never forget the sound of her voice when she said those words. 

In the end, I was a much bigger man and more of a gentleman than Joe was. I let her go when it was clear that's what she wanted. I knew she wasn't mine. Does that make me any less of a tragic figure? Perhaps. It shows I put her before myself. But tragic figures are tragic because they can't change. They can't adapt. In that way, I am the most tragic figure. Nothing I have done has changed the fact that I love that girl. I've implored heaven above to change me if that is God's will, but I am still pitifully, resolutely in love. Still, I can't outdo what Joe did. I can't send her flowers until I die. If I was a rich man, and if I was sure she wouldn't protest, I would. Would it change anything? No. But she would never wonder how I feel.

The world loves happy endings. I get mad when a movie ends poorly. I didn't sit through two hours only to feel bad at the end. This story, too, is in need of a happy ending. Until I die, I'll be waiting for my happy ending. Until then, don't say it's over. Even if it was truly over, this heart would never believe it.