Memories

Memories

One thing everyone has in common is memories, lots of them. Some events from the past are pleasant, others on the other hand can be horrible, and perhaps the majorities are a mixed bag. I find it interesting how at times a memory will suddenly float up from some dark chamber of my unconscious and present itself. I often have no idea why, perhaps there is no real reason, though I think otherwise. Even if I don’t always understand, which is a very common state for me to be in; I still like to ponder their content. I have a suspicion that others may know more than me when I share them, why they have come to the surface, but will not always share their insights with me. Perhaps for good reason, who knows? I think one reason, and obvious I imagine to most people, is that I have not yet dealt properly with the event; in other words I still have unfinished business to attend to.

So let us together travel into the past, way back; 45 years to be exact. I gasp just thinking that I have memories that old, for inside I still feel quite young. Well how I feel, and how old I am, probably have no real bearing anyway. It is perhaps because I am still very immature in many ways, which has kept me from actually bearing the weight of my age, perhaps it is an advantage to be that way. So it is 1961 and I am still 13 and it was the last year that I would attend any kind of summer activities that where made available to the youth at that time; most probably to simply keep us out of trouble. I only took one course that year; ball room dancing. I was a good dancer and decided to give it a whirl, though I doubted that I would finish it, simply too much to do otherwise during summer vacation.

If my memory serves me right there were 17 students present, nine girls and eight boys. The teacher got my attention at the get go. It was a very pleasant surprise to see that our instructor was a very beautiful women, about 35 years old who was going to turn our two left feet, into an actual team of one left and one right, at least as far as dancing goes.
She had very light skin, green eyes, and red hair that seemed to go towards burgundy, so yes, she was very beautiful, a classic. She was engaging, almost loving in how she related to all of us, and she was also a very good teacher. I have always been good at dancing, and took instinctively to the role of leader when doing the waltz. I did it without thinking, though it seemed others had to learn it. It is really very simple; all you do is place the hand in the lower back area and simply gently put pressure to allow your partner to know which way you were going to dance. Others for some reason found this to be mysterious. Well I was good at one thing at least.

The teacher’s name was Ann, and she would dance with me much of the time, for which I felt very lucky. I like the other boys in the class was infatuated with her. She took all this with good humor, so we all had a great deal of fun with her while the class was in progress. It was amazing to dance with her. She was short, so I could easily lead her, it was like we moved as one, quite an experience for one my age, and I think she could be one of the reasons I got addicted so much to dancing when I was young.

The class only lasted for two weeks and the day came when it was over. I had mixed feelings, but I guess over all I was glad that I could now do other things with my time. Like swim in Gatun lake, spend time in the Jungle, movies etc. Sometimes when she saw me she would come over and see how I was doing. She always seemed to be genuinely interested in what I was about, and listened to my thoughts, which I found unusual from an adult. The last time I saw her, she seemed different, sad, but she pretended to be happy, and being so young I did not know how to broach what I was experiencing with her. I doubt it would have any good anyway; I was after all only 13, who looked 11.

Three days after our last meeting I got word that she drove out to one of the beaches seldom frequented with crowds, at night, put down a blanket, took out a bottle of sleeping pills, took them and laid down and died. I remember the moment when I heard it, I froze, and suddenly memories of her came barreling up. I would see her laughing, or dancing with me or with one of the other boys, having fun, seeming to enjoy life. Then my last memory of her being sad, but was not mature enough to say anything, of course it would have done no good. I guess there were no adults around to help her.

I would at night before I slept think of what it must have been like for her. The pain that would drive such a beautiful women to do such a tragic act, to die in such darkness and loneliness, to actually want to die, to end her life, to take her light out of this world, a place where she did make a difference. I heard rumors of the whys of it all, but I don’t take rumors seriously anyway. I would often think about her off and on for a few years and then they stopped, until recently when they surfaced.

It is amazing how much we can hide from others, giving them no clue to what is actually going on inside. The hopelessness, the despair, covered over with a smile, refusing to let anyone else in to help, until it gets so bad that death seems a good alternative. Perhaps suicides want to simply cease, to not exist, to rest. I hope better for her, perhaps she wanted more life, and the life she lived was too painful and constricting for her to cope. In any case suicide is not an act made by a person who is sane and who can think rationally. It points to being overwhelmed and not having a way out that I feel often leads to this kind of tragedy.

Perhaps I loved her more than I thought, and have not mourned her death properly, I still don’t know, perhaps there is no meaning for this memory at all, though I give it some importance. She saw me and the other students and treated us with respect and love, which is something, something indeed. So I will pray for her, since I think there is still a connection. Perhaps I will meet her one day and have the first dance, a waltz, where we can dance as one, were I can finally asked her ‘the question’, from one adult to another.