I loved her fiercely long ago, this woman with her dark hair and dark eyes and wonderful smile and her bright, shining eyes when she looked at me.

She brought me flowers and a hug just as I moved into a new place, a place of my own. I was grateful for her small kindness, and told her so.

I was lonely at the time, even then a vagabond of sorts because pressures of work and place demanded it. She started coming to keep me company when she could, bringing her smile and her sense of humor and her constant stream of conversation and questions and always, oh always a hug, a touch, a look.

Before long, I had fallen in love with her, and we became lovers. I knew she loved me too.

It was difficult for both of us. I was always packing a bag to fly off to somewhere in North America, often on only a few hours notice. Her family kept her busy when I was away, but even so she found time to come by an empty house and leave me notes, pictures, flowers, something she had made. I was always happy to get home just for that, for isn’t it nice to know that someone thinks of you even though they have a life far removed from yours?

I thought so then, as I do now.

She wanted children, as did I, and when she finally became pregnant we were both very happy. I would spend hours with my hand on her stomach feeling the soft, abrupt kicks, sharing the laughter neither of us could hold back.

It was a wonderful time for both of us that ended on a warm night in Georgia, so long ago. She miscarried in Atlanta.

Although we both tried very hard after that, it was never the same. Eventually I just had to move away, and though I asked her to come, of course she wouldn’t. She couldn’t by then. I had asked too late.

You asked me if I had ever had any children, and I answered, “No, none that lived,” in that flippant tone that I have. That shocked you, I know, and before I could explain further we were interrupted and I had no opportunity to share this with you at the time.

I hope you won’t think less of me for having told you now.

For most of us, our lives are wrapped up in family and friends to one degree or another. The closest friends we made were in our early school years, having shared the challenges of graduating to another year of public or high school, dating, getting a driver’s licence. If lucky, we kept some of those childhood friends into adulthood, for who else could possibly bring us down to our true size by re-telling an old, embarrassing story? If unlucky, we lost some of our closest friends, and thus a central part of our lives, for without good friends the best of times mean nothing.

We all grew up in a small, one-industry town. Although the prospects for local employment were good, most of my crowd wanted out. I led the way, into a high-risk occupation. Some of the others followed, and thus we started our various adventures.

I spent years traveling around North America and Africa, paid to do so by the company I worked for. For most of that time I lived out of suitcases in hotels and motels, and out of a duffel bag in tents from the arctic to the mountains, from the bush to the desert. It was a nomadic life, perfect for a young man who wanted to experience the world and its offerings.

There were women in every port, but none that could keep me interested for more than a while. Short-timers, I called them. Some were married, some weren’t. Some had family, some didn’t. On occasion I left a trail of emotional destruction in my wake – never intentional, but often disastrous for those left behind. Don’t get me wrong though – I did have some fabulous relationships with some wonderful women, although none lasted the test of absence or time.

As for my friends, well, they started killing themselves. Or rather, getting killed. Aircraft accidents, car crashes and motorcycle wrecks all took their toll. Even some of the friends I had made in adulthood were being decimated by the occupational hazards of our chosen work. When that started happening, I thought it time to move on to other, less hazardous, things.

Which, eventually, I did.

I had certainly led a charmed life until then. And there was a nagging feeling that I owed something for my good fortune. If only the good died young, then to be sure I was bound for hell, I thought.

I still have that feeling.

* * *

We never know when we will be called on to perform a small kindness or a hero’s mission — or something in between. The reward for doing so – if there can be a reward – is in knowing that perhaps dues were paid for past transgressions in life, and sometimes, love. A small comfort for those of us with many dues to pay.