Saying Goodbye to the Year that will Never Leave Me
Two thousand and six, Anno Domini or Common Era, depending on who you ask, was very, very long. This time last year I was preparing my return to night-classes at Dawson College, unsure of anything related to my future and knowing only one thing - I needed to WRITE. Since then, I've passed two semesters spectacularly, written over twenty-thousand words in my novel-in-progress alone - not including the massive revision it's undergone in the last six months - and made a lot of friends. I've worked hard, played harder and fallen in love. I've come into my own this year and through it all the need to write hasn't left me; it's been more or less the only constant this year, the only one other than my lovely girlfriend, Christina, whom I love with all of my heart.
The darkest day of this year affirmed that love in a terrible way. The day which will define this year in the eyes of future generations brought me closer to her than any other and it is because of my very, very deep love for her that a part of me never leave September 13th, 2006 behind:
When unconscionable evil was visited upon Dawson College on that day, I was at work (having caught a black widow spider earlier that day, I was actually feeling half-decent). I received a phone call about fifteen minutes after I'd returned to work from my lunch and, for some reason I did what I never usually do at work; I answered. It was a woman I consider my second mother, Joyce, who works near Dawson; she was calling to reassure herself that I was okay. I asked why and she told me.
I spent the next two hours frantically trying not to lose my mind as I worked and - after a confrontation over it with my boss - answered my phone religiously as more and more information poured in. My girlfriend had not been seen by anyone, had not been heard from by a single living soul, since the first shots had echoed off the walls of the buildings lining De Maisonneuve Boulevard.
Her mother called me, in tears, and I could do nothing to reassure her; I could not even share her tears. I boiled with anger. The killer was already dead, but I felt as though, through the power of my rage alone, I might at any moment reach into the past and kill him myself, with my bare hands.
The first shots were fired at 12:41 pm, right after lunch, on a day that is more tangible for me than September 11th. It was not until almost three o'clock that the one name I was waiting to see appeared on my cell-phone's tiny LCD screen. I answered and, even in my shocked and angry state I drank the sound of her voice. Relief flooded my being and happiness I had not known at any time during my life overtook me. I nearly sobbed right there, on the phone in the middle of a grocery store next to my close friends Christopher and Jason.
I remember the way the all-too-bright full-spectrum lighting glinted off the metal trimming of a nearby refrigerated counter. I remember the rhythm of my heartbeat as it competed with Christina's voice for aural priority. I remember it all vividly as though it is still happening, right this very moment.
It's been almost four months now. Today I read a 'year-in-review' section in my local paper and it dealt briefly with what its journalists call the Dawson Tragedy and, as every time I read, listen to, talk about or see anything that deals - at even remotely significant length - with that day, tears began to well up in my eyes. With some difficulty, I turned the page.
I fear it will never cease to be difficult.
The darkest day of this year affirmed that love in a terrible way. The day which will define this year in the eyes of future generations brought me closer to her than any other and it is because of my very, very deep love for her that a part of me never leave September 13th, 2006 behind:
When unconscionable evil was visited upon Dawson College on that day, I was at work (having caught a black widow spider earlier that day, I was actually feeling half-decent). I received a phone call about fifteen minutes after I'd returned to work from my lunch and, for some reason I did what I never usually do at work; I answered. It was a woman I consider my second mother, Joyce, who works near Dawson; she was calling to reassure herself that I was okay. I asked why and she told me.
I spent the next two hours frantically trying not to lose my mind as I worked and - after a confrontation over it with my boss - answered my phone religiously as more and more information poured in. My girlfriend had not been seen by anyone, had not been heard from by a single living soul, since the first shots had echoed off the walls of the buildings lining De Maisonneuve Boulevard.
Her mother called me, in tears, and I could do nothing to reassure her; I could not even share her tears. I boiled with anger. The killer was already dead, but I felt as though, through the power of my rage alone, I might at any moment reach into the past and kill him myself, with my bare hands.
The first shots were fired at 12:41 pm, right after lunch, on a day that is more tangible for me than September 11th. It was not until almost three o'clock that the one name I was waiting to see appeared on my cell-phone's tiny LCD screen. I answered and, even in my shocked and angry state I drank the sound of her voice. Relief flooded my being and happiness I had not known at any time during my life overtook me. I nearly sobbed right there, on the phone in the middle of a grocery store next to my close friends Christopher and Jason.
I remember the way the all-too-bright full-spectrum lighting glinted off the metal trimming of a nearby refrigerated counter. I remember the rhythm of my heartbeat as it competed with Christina's voice for aural priority. I remember it all vividly as though it is still happening, right this very moment.
It's been almost four months now. Today I read a 'year-in-review' section in my local paper and it dealt briefly with what its journalists call the Dawson Tragedy and, as every time I read, listen to, talk about or see anything that deals - at even remotely significant length - with that day, tears began to well up in my eyes. With some difficulty, I turned the page.
I fear it will never cease to be difficult.