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Queen of My Broken Heart

RINGS COME JUST AS EASILY as they go, I thought as I inventoried the list of things my wedding planner gave Chrissy and me earlier in the day. My track record with women is as long as the litany of saints.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but she bolts first if it is not me.

I was 23 when my parents divorced. A year later, my childhood sweetheart and fiancée, Sally, died. It was one hell of a blow, to lose the one you love so young to the cruel hand of death. I have never overcome the shock. I will forever live in denial. It’s like she isn’t there, but she is there at the same time.

Over the years, I have had women in my life, after seven years since Sally’s burial, but none is like my first love.

Photo by Thaís Sarmento:

Occasionally, the relationships blossomed, even seeming to promise no end, but when they started using four-letter words— ‘baby’, ‘ring’, ‘home’—I bolted and took to the wild. I would imagine them trying to trace me, even to the point of hiring PIs for those who were rich dad’s girls, to no avail. 

The grapevine has it that I am the senior-most bachelor around, with no cares in the world. 

It’s funny how some women who’ve come close to me these days think they are Mrs Right for me!

Well, what do I say?

I turned 50 yesterday and proposed to Chrissy, the thirty-something Queen of my broken heart. I didn’t expect it. It was just a joke, so I’d tell Mom she said no, but guess she said yes!

Well, Mama insisted. She said nothing would break me, or lead me astray, this time around. 

I hope this time she’s right.