Carpe Diem

By mid-pandemic I was dreaming most every night about what would have happened if I began courting Carol Ann right after having reached for her hand, to hold as we crossed the street to the pond across from her house. I had just started prep; she was an eighth grader. Our parents, best friends to each other, were inside at the kitchen table talking and snacking. The pond was frozen and I had remembered to bring my skates. She held my hand tightly and glanced, smiling and giggling, after I had reached for hers. We weren’t wearing gloves; so that made the contact even more exciting. I was bold enough to make a move; but I never followed up, missing opportunities to date and take her to school dances over the years—and, of course, missing opportunity to fall in love and marry my childhood sweetheart. Though we had danced together once at a Catholic Charities Ball, our parents in sight. OMG, as a prep sophomore I had even written her a love letter, confessing my feelings to her. Albeit anonymously. Now, seven decades later and twice divorced, curious about what had happened to her, I googled her. I called. We talked. Divorced herself, she had great grandchildren. But she remembered nothing about us. Not holding hands. Not the dance. Not the letter. Not me. Nothing. What’s that saying? Carpe diem?