Elnaz Rezaei Ghalechi

Someone Saved My Life

I might never have written this book if that conversation hadn’t shattered my isolation and made me question what I thought I knew—that I was alone, unworthy, unlovable.

It was a Sunday night in the hospital, but time meant nothing. The hours blurred together as I paced the dimly lit hallway outside the nurses’ station, sleepless and invisible. I moved in and out of shadows, unnoticed by the staff, wrapped in a quiet desperation.

The suicidal thoughts had returned—not loud or dramatic, but like a slow leak in a sinking ship. The kind of thoughts that whisper, This will never change. You will never be free. Not truly.

In 2006, I had come to this same hospital in crisis—a cry for help, more impulse than intent. But this time had been colder. Calmer. More like surrender.

I had survived, but I didn’t know if I wanted to.

Then came a voice. Soft, tentative.

"You can't sleep either?"

It was Kira—21, sharp-eyed, and clear-souled. She had seen through my silence in a way few had before. I don’t remember exactly what I told her first. Maybe it started with fragments: a false accusation, a life torn away. But she looked at me and said what I never expected:

"Oh, I believe you. 100%."

Those words were like water in the desert.

She didn’t ask for proof. She didn’t shrink away. She believed me.

And something inside me exhaled for the first time in years.

Maybe she just said the right thing at the right moment. Maybe I was finally ready to hear it. But that moment cracked something open—a space I had sealed off long ago.

It made me wonder: What if I wasn’t destined to carry this in silence forever?

A few days later, I found myself in the tv room with a few others. At this point, I was joining others. I had enjoyed Law & Order: SVU but the topic of this episode could not have come at a more appropriate time.

This episode was different. The plot mirrored my own life: a teacher, falsely accused of a heinous crime, his life dismantled by lies. I sat frozen. Every scene struck me like a nerve. The disbelief, the humiliation of a false accusation, these were experiences I knew very well. The story was powerful. The police had soon realized that the teacher was innocent but the damage had been done. He didn’t know if he would be able to work in his field. The character was in tears - doing an excellent job of portraying the intense pain of this accusation.

While it was fictional, I felt like the authors who wrote this story had known of an incident like this. I had to share what I was noticing and how I could relate to this story.

During the commercial break, I stepped out to tell two ladies that I wanted to share something when they returned. I was making it inevitable that I would share my own experience. People by now knew that I had been a therapist and cared about others.

As everyone returned to the room, there were now about 5 or 6 of us.

"I can relate to all of this," I said. I then added, “I was falsely accused of a violent crime many years ago. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to work in the field again; it destroyed my life. That is why I am here.”

Then someone spoke. "I’m so sorry that happened to you, Bruce."

It seemed like it would be easy to understand how this would harm someone.

Those words, so simple, so human, broke something loose. Not because they erased the past—but because they reminded me I wasn’t beyond compassion.

Later that week, I joined a group activity. I encouraged another patient to attend. We were given words to represent our feelings and paints to express them visually.

I chose words like misfit, outcast, invisible, and outsider. I wanted to amplify the negative feelings and the cold and isolated feelings that go along with these words.

When it was my turn to share, I don’t know what I expected.

Instead, the man I had convinced to come said, "You’re not invisible. You got me here. You’re everywhere. You’re like the social butterfly of this place."

Others chimed in. They spoke of my presence. My kindness.

My jaw dropped.

Was that really me? How had I not noticed this myself?

They saw someone I didn’t know existed anymore. Maybe had never met.

And for the first time in years, I believed that healing might be possible—not because I was cured, but because I was no longer alone.

Kira and I spoke again. She said I should meet her family for Christmas. We never did, but Elee—my ex-wife, still so compassionate—paid for us to go to a movie together.

It was a simple gesture. But it felt like life nudging me forward.

I left the hospital not healed, but opened. I had stepped out of the shadow of suicide into something like possibility.

And for the first time in a long, long time, I wasn’t just surviving.

I was beginning to live.

I should have thought of reaching out and trying to connect with others sooner than this. To be clear, my problems had been trying to get my own family to understand my pain and what I had experienced. I had been telling myself, as I stated earlier, that if my own family didn’t care than who would? This had created a sense of a world without caring or connection.

The hospital doors had closed behind me, but their weight still pressed against my shoulders. I had become extremely anxious for my ride to take me home from the hospital. I was no longer suicidal. I felt a new found sense of hope.

Elee paid for me to meet with a friend that I met in the hospital named Kira and for us three to see a movie. It was amazing how much this cost and how invested Elee was in my healing. This was right after Christmas. Kira had intended to have me visit her family for Christmas but she was promising things without getting an okay from her family.

I stepped out of the hospital on the 23rd of December, 2019. I was not healed but I was different. I wasn’t carrying the weight of the past alone. I had shared it with others. I had told my story - admittedly it was a very abridged version of the story… but the simple concept that a false conviction can destroy a human life was something others could understand. The full story is this book.

Star Wars IX reached the theaters at that time and Elee wanted me to make a new friend and so she offered to pay for movie tickets for me, Kira and herself. This was Saturday December 28, 2019. Kira’s father brought her and then picked her up after the movie. It would turn out that Kira was dealing with serious issues of her own and this meant that her interest in trying to help me or be a friend to me would not last long.

December 2019.

It hadn’t come out of nowhere. That’s the first thing I need to say.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t a breakdown or a psychotic snap. It was more like a slow erosion—a quiet, daily wearing away of hope, purpose, and identity.

It was the accumulation of years spent trying to live in a world where a lie had become the first truth associated with my name.

That day, I had Googled my name. Again. I don’t know what I was hoping for—maybe that the link had vanished, that the internet had finally moved on, that something had shifted in my favor. But there it was, like always. The headline. The charge. The lie.

And this time, it broke me. John F had reposted on his website the article that falsely characterized the perpetrator as a “girl.”

The lie was digital. Permanent. You could search me online and find it: the false narrative, the charge, the slander that said I was capable of something I knew in my bones I would never, ever do. And not just capable—but guilty. My name, next to hers. A violent offense. The words “girl” and “felony” and “sexual assault.” The distortion of it all was enough to make the air feel thinner every time I looked.

She wasn’t a girl. She was the perpetrator. I was the one who bled. And yet, for the past fifteen years, I’d lived under a shadow that didn't belong to me.

I had done everything they told me to do. I had gone to therapy. I had tried trauma processing. I had written the story, again and again, trying to make sense of it. I had tried telling the truth out loud, only to find the words disappeared into a society that didn’t care.

I couldn’t live in a world where people thought I had harmed a woman. That was the mantra I had repeated to therapists, advocates, friends—anyone who would listen. But the thing about mantras is, they aren’t spells. They don’t change the world.

They just echo in your head until they become unbearable.

And in December of 2019, it became unbearable.

I called my legal support service one more time, the Pre-Paid Legal law firm, the only law firm I could afford. I explained the case again, tried to argue that the statute of limitations shouldn’t apply to someone who never truly consented to a plea deal, who had been shut down, frozen, dissociated in the courtroom. I asked whether the website quoting a misreported news article could be taken down. I pleaded.

And they said no. Again. They said in a matter of fact way that the article was true based on the fact that I had been arrested and charged. I tried to argue that it was false in the fact that Ana, the perpetrator who was believed to be a victim was not a “girl.” It didn’t matter. John wasn’t even alive.

“There’s nothing you can do.”

Those words. The final verdict. The end of the line.

What do you do when the lie wins? When justice is unavailable? When the past isn't just haunting you—it’s stalking you, shaping your future, dictating your limits?

I wasn’t in a panic. I wasn’t screaming. I wasn’t even crying. I was... quiet.

The vodka wasn’t for oblivion. It was for courage.

I couldn’t do it sober. The pills in the bottle stared back at me—Effexor, antidepressants meant to keep me from getting to this place. But they hadn’t worked. Not enough. And tonight, they weren’t going to save me. They were part of the plan.

It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t some dramatic gesture. It was simply the only thing that made sense after the law firm said what they did. After the same lie kept rising to the top of every search. After hearing again that John F.’s reposting of a misinformed article—one that wrongly referred to my attacker as a "girl"—was untouchable because it was “quoting a news source.”

Even in death, he had power over my name. Even after all these years, my name was still tangled in something grotesque and false. It didn’t matter that Ana was a grown woman. It didn’t matter that she was the one who assaulted me. The framing had been set, and every new acquaintance, every employer, every curious stranger who Googled me would meet that framing first.

I picked up my phone again and typed out a message to Elee. I told her I was sorry. I told her I regretted bringing her here, to the U.S.—even if I hadn’t made her choices for her. But mostly, I told her what I was doing.

It was late. I didn’t expect her to see it in time. I didn’t expect anything, really. I was just apologizing for her having given up her old life for me. Some time passed. I had come close to falling asleep before taking enough pills to end my existence.

But then came the knock on the door.

Police.

Disoriented, I opened it. My thoughts were scattered, blurry, but not gone. They asked if I was okay. I was tearful. Something in me still wanted to be heard, even now. I told them how much I was hurting. About the hopelessness. About what I had done.

They listened. They didn’t threaten. But I knew—I was going to the hospital.

And I knew I couldn’t take the patrol car.

Even the idea of handcuffs made my chest tighten. I had worn them before—not as a danger to anyone, but as a victim of a system that saw me as something I wasn’t. I told them I would go in the ambulance. Thinking, please, no cuffs.

They agreed..

I lay on the stretcher in the emergency room at UNC, the lights buzzing faintly above. The hospital air smelled sterile, overwashed, distant. It was December 11, 2019, just past midnight.

I wasn’t crying anymore. I wasn’t resisting. I was embarrassed.

A hospital volunteer sat beside me. I couldn’t bring myself to say much. But there was a strange sense of peace—not comfort, but surrender. I wasn’t in control anymore. That pressure was gone.

Part of me thought: Maybe this wasn’t even a real attempt. I hadn’t taken all the pills. I hadn’t lost consciousness. But that’s not what mattered. I had crossed a line inside myself. And I didn’t know if I could go back.

Eventually, they moved me to another floor. I hadn’t seen a psychiatrist yet, just nurses who checked my vitals and asked quiet questions.

I remembered this process. I had once been the one doing the evaluations—visiting patients on medical floors to decide if they were going to be going home or if their suicide attempt was serious enough. Now, I was the patient. And I knew exactly what was coming.

When the psych resident finally arrived—a woman younger than me, calm but firm—I tried to talk my way out of it. I tried to argue that someone with my background would have known what was suicidal. Later I would admit to myself that if I had not nearly fallen asleep, or if I had the chance, I would have continued to take pills until I had taken enough.

She looked at me gently. “You’re going to be admitted.”

There was no convincing her otherwise.

Book recommendations:

This is what Amritari wrote about my book:

I really feel like I get to know you through most of the book and then when everything falls apart it is really shocking and disturbing. As a reader one really cares about you as a character. As a reader, I really want to know what happens to you.

You are such a beautiful writer. I just love how you write. It is so easy to read and get engrossed in all the details. I just enjoyed your book so much and was up into the early morning hours reading it. I couldn't put it down.

- Amritari Martinez adding:

I stayed up till 2 am to finish your book. Oh my god. You have suffered so much. The turn of events was shocking. You are such a good writer. It all sounds like such a nightmare. I really hope the next chapters can be about how you returned to your life and healed from all of this misfortune. Your love story was also beautiful. You are such a romantic. It's so sad that all of these things happened to you.

- And later Amritari added:

  This is really Fantastic and engaging. I was totally captivated by your story and drawn into it with your prose and the character of yourself that you created. I want to know more of you. I feel connected to you. I care about you.

Followed by the following:

You did a terrific job bringing more details into your book. I think it is a lot clearer, I really thought you did a good job writing about your romantic encounter with Lynn. That was really beautiful.

It is all so shocking. You have suffered so much. I really think you can turn this around. You are such a nice person and a great writer.

Acknowledgments

I wanted to thank all those who made this book possible.  

I wanted to begin by thanking my good friend and colleague Amritari Martinez.  We both have experience working in the mental health or allied fields.  Without her feedback, support, questions, and guidance, this book would not be possible.  She asked questions that helped me clarify areas where the details of events had not been explained well in earlier drafts.  That sense of someone wanting to know what happened next or what happened with the love of my life, Lynn and me... those questions were so helpful and demonstrated that someone is reading and paying attention and that someone cares!

So, Amritari was like a colleague in the field and an editor all in one.  As a writer, publishing my first novel-length book, we need editors.  Because of everything I have experienced, I am not in a position to pay top dollar to expensive editors.  Mainly I wanted to get the story out there.  I wanted to connect with others.  That is what I found ever since I first shared this book with Amritari!

Cari M. and others from the Orange County Rape Crisis Center were very supportive in recognizing my own victimization. We discussed the gender bias that exists when one considers who can be seen as a victim. It might be rare but sometimes, as in my own experiences, a male can be the victim of a violent female. It's sad that this is so hard for many people to imagine this can be true.

I wanted to thank Kirra, the girl I met in the hospital in 2019.  Without her friendship, compassion, and kindness, empathy and so much more, I literally wouldn't be here to write this book.  I can't give her last name because we met in a psychiatric hospital.  This is described in the Introduction that follows.  
 

I want to thank Amy H. also who I met in the same hospital during the same period.  We are still friends.  She was a good listener and similarly compassionate, caring, and empathetic, not to mention a good friend.

During a writing group, I received some great feedback and suggestions from David Scott Binanay which came as an epiphany to me.  David suggested that I start the book with a pleasant account of how I met my first wife and that I should help the reader to get to know me as a person.  This flipped a switch in my mind.  

My autobiography had seemed like it was full of so many ideas that I couldn't articulate a theme or a sense of what the book was about.  It had seemed to be about so many different things and the ideas had not come together as part of one coherent narrative.  I was able to revise the content of my book and to know where it was going with each chapter of the book.  With that advice, I knew why and how each chapter would fit into the overall narrative after this.  I could see each chapter flowing from the previous chapter after that feedback from David.  I had an overall theme for the entire book now and I could see how the different pieces of my story fit together.  

The UNC Center for Excellence in Community Mental Health was very helpful and supportive over the past year or more in helping me to find the strength to write this book.

My friend Suzanne Hoy demonstrated compassion, empathy, and curiosity about what has happened to me beginning when I first met her.  We talked that first day for over twelve hours when showed a fascination with my story and wanted to understand all the details.  Her many questions and willingness to listen were very powerful in helping me to tell my story.  I was so lucky and encouraged by her interest.  

The advocates at Community Empowerment Fund were so helpful with their support over the past year.  I was seeking a platform where I could tell my story and they suggested Wattpad.  This publication is part of my effort to get my life back after an extremely tragic miscarriage of justice.  Initially, it was hard to talk about what had happened to me.  

In the last chapter, I spoke about attending the poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center. It was April of 1992 when I arrived in Wilmington, North Carolina. I started attending the poetry readings on Sundays.

This was part of my new identity that I was discovering.

Somehow, at these poetry readings, I felt a sense of belonging. Everyone was so welcoming, and the atmosphere was serene and accepting. However, I was aware of the fact that most of these other poets had a degree in English.

I wanted to understand a poet and the ideas that poets have - these poets. I wanted to connect with people who express themselves through the written word.

Martin, my poetry mentor, gave me enough courage to believe that I could be a poet. As a reminder, I had been visiting him and his wife (I might have left her out of the story earlier) for coffee, tea, and reading poetry – his, mine, and that of famous poets. He was a professor of English.

Some of the craft of poetry would allude me, such as meter and rhyme, but I learned that there is a form of poetry called "free verse" that doesn't require as much effort to be expended in the craft and I could get to the point of communicating ideas and sharing ideas, which was the most important aspect of what I wanted or needed.

I'm only saying these things because I have always had some insecurities about my talents.

At this point, as I started this phase of my life, I noticed that for the first time, those insecurities were virtually gone. I know this because I was making friends and connecting with others. I was a part of something that was important. Something special was happening on those evenings and at those poetry readings and other events.

There was something serene about the setting that made it easier for me to get up in front of a group of people and read my poetry. The sun would reflect across the Cape Fear River casting the soft rays of sunlight into the room.

My ability to get up in front of a room of people every week was an amazing accomplishment for me. Again, I have always been shy, fearful, quiet. I NEVER put myself at the center of attention anywhere EVER... until I started coming to the poetry readings.

This ability to be the center of attention would have a profound impact on my choices and my future as I built a career for myself. I would reflect upon the struggles and accomplishments that brought me to this point.

Dusty, the emcee for the poetry readings, made it easier too. She worked at the lounge on the fourth floor of the Coastline Convention Center, where we had the readings. She had a magical quality of attending to the guests of the Convention Center whether they were there for the poetry or not.

Something about Dusty made you feel welcome and comfortable. She was a motherly figure in a way because she was older than some of the other regulars who were like me in our twenties.

I also had noticed this other girl that was coming every week for the poetry readings. There was something about her that got my attention. Her name was Lynn.

She was very thin. She had a cough and that's related to her condition, Cystic Fibrosis - a genetic illness. I must have overheard Lynn talking about that. It's not the kind of thing that you ask someone about... like "why are you coughing all the time?"

Lynn was quiet but I didn't think she was as shy as I was.

She did share her own writing and she would share or read "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot. I'm not sure when I first noticed this.

There are so many little things that you observe when someone intrigues you.

Lynn definitely intrigued me.

What was it about her? Did I already think that she was the most beautiful girl imaginable? Do I dare admit to myself that I am entertaining such irrational thoughts? I don't think it was love at first sight but something about her intrigued me. I was a bit surprised that I was thinking about finding a girlfriend after the loss of Celta.

When I had previously "dated" someone in 1991, the year following the death of Celta it was at a time when I was still in shock – something akin to what a heavyweight boxer must feel right after he has just been hit with a few blows to the head, he staggers, trying to stay on his feet, stumbling about, dazed, confused, disoriented, not thinking clearly at all, on the verge of passing out. That was me for most of 1991 and into 1992 in the wake of the loss of Celta.

Back then, if you had asked me if I was ready to date or find someone meaningful to love, I would have said that the question makes about as much sense as it would to the boxer in that state of mind.

I had not been thinking or feeling for so long ... until sometime in May or June of 1992.

This was different. Undoubtedly, being on my own and living as an adult had allowed me to grieve normally and heal.

I wish I had known about my weakness and vulnerability around losing someone important. That would have been helpful later in life. But at this point in 1992, I was blissfully unaware of this coming darkness.

I should add that it wasn't only Lynn's looks that made her attractive to me. There was something that united all of us who were regulars that came to the readings and I held everyone in high regard. There was a connection that I felt to the people I was meeting.

That being said, Lynn was stunningly beautiful. Her voice was hypnotic and alluring. She had all the things that one considers in feminine beauty and shape or so it seemed to me very early on. She seemed perfect.

I loved her voice both when she was at the microphone and when I was close to her. And her face, her skin, her legs seemed like gentle features I might have created in my own mind if I had the imagination to do such a thing.

Yet, I noticed she was alone.

I would come to the readings and try to get a sense of whether or not Lynn had a boyfriend. I didn't want to risk rejection.

Asking a girl out was a very difficult thing for me to do. I would calculate the possibility of rejection.

To avoid that I was trying to come up with a plan for seeing her outside these readings that would be something easy and without the burden of her having to size me up to determine my value as a male companion when she heard the question that I was trying to pose or the request. 

I was wanting to see if she would want to spend some time with me - as in just me.

I was like a shy person in recovery. That's a phrase I just made up. It's the best way to describe the way I thought of myself and my fear - my concerns, my judgments about how to proceed.

We were coming up on July 4th and nearly 3 months after I started going to these readings. My social life involved going out a few times with my roommate, Donna, who was nice, but we were not making a connection like I was making at the readings. Plus, I wasn't into Donna romantically.

A big poetry reading was coming up this Sunday the day after the 4th of July. I thought of Fort Fischer where Jean Jones works. Fort Fischer is a historical place. There's also the aquarium nearby. And there is this jetty that goes out to some tiny island which is a mini-animal conservation spot of sorts.

Anyway, the poetry reading was a big deal. Flyers were everywhere it seemed. Maybe I just noticed them in town because I was into that kind of thing.

Yeah, we (Lynn and I) could go together. I was pretty sure she wasn't seeing anyone else.

How it was possible that she didn't already have a boyfriend, I didn't know.

On the last Sunday before the 4th, I found myself at a table by the window at the lounge where the readings were held. She seemed receptive to me. Sure, why not. At some point, I found the courage to ask her "do you want to go to the poetry reading next Sunday with me?"

"Sure," she said.

"Oh, my God," I thought. "It worked. Okay, I need to do more."

"Can I call you?"

Before long I was getting her phone number. 

The sun was still above the Cape Fear River and reflecting back into the room a kaleidoscope of orange and blue. It seemed that my awareness of a room full of people had departed and I was only aware of us.

While this was happening, I added, "We could go down to Carolina Beach on Saturday too. There are things to see down there."

"Okay," she said in a voice that was soft and warm.

I was surprised too... not because I expected to be rejected but because of how much I wanted this. I wasn't reflecting on matters at this point. I was just acting on instinct.

In the back of my mind during the next week, I was thinking about what to do. I wanted to have lots of suggestions to offer Lynn. I wasn't sure what she would like.

I had called her and said that I knew of a peaceful and scenic spot where we could go. Maybe we could go to Fort Fischer and see if Jean was working there, or to the aquarium.

So, now, it was July 4th of 1992. I picked her up at her home on Wrightsville Beach. We drove through Wilmington and continued toward Carolina Beach. It was somehow amazing just how easy the conversation was going for both of us. I would have expected that I would have been nervous.

There is a jetty that runs out to a tiny island south of Carolina Beach where the Cape Fear River meets the ocean. It's the farthest point south if you drive down Highway 421/Carolina Beach Road from Wilmington, North Carolina.

We decided that we would go to this spot.

This is our first date. I think it's a "date." I don't have much experience dating and so if you are wondering, dear reader, what I mean by saying I was shy, these are just a few examples of what it is like. I don't think Lynn had a great deal of experience with these kinds of things either.

Since I was driving, I double-checked to see if this was where we wanted to stop first. She agreed.

So, I parked the car near the beach near that jetty that I mentioned.

The jetty is not on the open ocean, so the waves only gently lap against the beach and the rocks that form the jetty. It's just a bunch of rocks that have been stacked against one another to make a bridge of sorts. On top of the rocks, they put pavement to make it into a bridge that could be crossed.

We walked out there toward the jetty together, but we were both shy a bit about the nature of the relationship that was developing.

As we started walking onto the jetty, I noticed it was a bit slippery because the saltwater had washed over the bridge recently.

I had not expected this to be slippery. I could not let her slip and risk anything bruising or scratching her perfect skin... not to mention the fear I would feel if I saw her fall.

But I was so nervous.

I had to do something. I reached out my hand to her.

"Wow!" I thought, "She took my hand. Wow! And why am I repeating this thought?"

My fingers crossed over her palm between the thumb and the first finger on her hand. I felt a tingling sensation beginning in my fingers and rising up my arm, like the small soft waves beside us. The sensation came to rest in the center of my chest.

I took a breath as if I needed air. It was a lightness that I felt in my chest as if a weight had been taken off me – as if my own weight was pressing down with less force than previously.

I wasn't expecting to feel anything like this. I was just catching her to keep her from falling.

"Do you want to keep going?" I asked.

"Sure," she said, pausing to take in the scene with me. Her straight blonde hair swayed in the gentle wind. The gentle waves washed against the rocks below us. It was peaceful.

There was something interesting that I was feeling. Holding her hand was "exciting" - like I had never felt excited before (which isn't true) ... AND this moment was also relaxed and peaceful. It might not make sense because being excited and relaxed are usually different feelings.

We walked for a bit further but then decided that this was getting too slippery.

"What's next," I thought. Then I said "Jean works at Fort Fischer and they have a tour of the historic site. We could go there."

She agreed.

I guess I was eager to spend as much time as I could with Lynn. I didn't want the day to end. I didn't want to drop her off and leave.

We let the windows down and Lynn eased back into her seat, letting the wind blow softly – we weren't going fast. She looked comfortable and dreamy. I wasn't sure what that meant other than that she was "comfortable" or relaxed as she sat back in her seat looking out the window. I didn't have much time to see if she was looking at me at this moment.

That same feeling continued as we walked the grounds at Fort Fischer – a Civil War historic site. We spoke to Jean for a bit.

It's hard to recount everything that we did that day, but I wanted to say that while I was coming up with things to do, Lynn was contributing to the conversation and helping come up with ideas. She wasn't just saying "sure" or "okay." For one, that would have been discouraging to me and secondly, Lynn didn't seem like the type who went along with things.

I was desperate to find out that Lynn wanted to spend time with me and was therefore an equal participant in these decisions about what we were doing together. 

I had a feeling then and later that the reason she didn't already have a boyfriend was that she didn't need a guy to complete her nor was she looking to be in a relationship. That would happen to both of us but perhaps neither of us was looking - to be honest, I was more inclined to desire a relationship with a girl than she was... but I am getting ahead of my story.

The day faded into the night and we made our way to downtown Wilmington.

We saw the fireworks that night, over the Cape Fear River and near the Battleship.

After the fireworks, we were walking back to the car and we walked by the place where she worked at a historic home that had been converted into a shelter for youth runaways. A co-worker of hers asked her if I was her boyfriend. I heard her say "No, we are just friends."

Darn. I thought this was a date. Actually, even if it was an all-day date, we were still just friends.

I could wait.

The next day I picked her up again and we went to the poetry reading down in Carolina Beach.

There must have been a few dozen people when I read my poetry. This was a major accomplishment. I had an awareness of being nervous and I wondered if others picked up on the shakiness in my voice. There could have been a hundred or more people and I would have felt equally anxious.

Lynn took a seat on the side of the stage facing where I was standing after I read. She took the microphone and read "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot.

I was taking photographs, including photographs of her.

As I reflect on these two dates or days spent together, I realize that I cannot fill in any more details. Decades have passed.

Looking back at the nearly three months when I was sharing my poetry, it's interesting to note the subject matter of my poetry... It had been about grief and a special friend named Celta. Yet here I was totally focused on this new girl named Lynn. It's hard to overstate the meaning and importance of this.