Mine was flawed
January 24, 2013
When I was in college there were perhaps a dozen African-Canadians. (Not counting foreign students.) One girl in particular was from a local small town. She was very involved in social issues. As was my roommate at the time. He started a group that volunteered to help out at the local half way house for men and women getting out of prison. This girl, I’ll call her Wendy, also joined this group. Which is how I got to meet her. I became quite fond of her. We talked. Sometimes ate dinner together. Nothing romantic. The next September when I returned to school I heard a rumor that Wendy had died, jumped off one of the buildings on campus that summer.
Decades later I was browsing through the university alumni magazine when I saw Wendy’s name. She was retiring from some post in a local hospital. She hadn’t died. Hadn’t jumped off any building. Hadn’t been depressed. Wendy had lived a life and I had lived mine. Except mine was flawed.