Unrequited Love

Unrequited Love conjures images of a bespeckled pock-faced boy, mooning after the cute girl in his algebra class, where he continually intimidates the class with his precociousness, eradicating any possibility said girl would feel comfortable attempting a conversation with him.

Or the 13-year-old girl screaming out her love at the concert of the latest teen heartthrob.

Or the 50-something wife and mother now sidelined by her husband chasing a younger skirt.

Or the widower trying to navigate the online dating system to replace his lost love.

But unrequited love also describes the mother of the newborn, smitten with her daughter who placidly sleeps oblivious to her mother’s affections until hungry.

That same daughter later drives off to college without a backward glance, rejoicing at new freedom while her mother mourns her absence.

Or the son who waits every Saturday for the father who never comes despite constant promises.

Or the grandmother who lies daily in a nursing home without visits from dozens of grandchildren.

Or the woman who calls her friend and leaves messages of concern but never receives a return call.

Or the employee who shows up for the meeting that no one remembered to tell him had been canceled.

It even applies to the road I pass while driving to my parents’ hometown, the old road that snakes next to the mountains and the river, now abandoned for the new four lane road, the one blasted through the mountains, displacing centuries and tons of rock while the old road still faithfully offers passage to the same place.

And every time I reach the point of choosing, I wish to take the old road, to enjoy its turning, to appreciate its faithful service, but haste chooses the new road, the waste of good mountains, and I tell myself next time.

And that faithful road remains waiting, wondering what it did wrong.

And I wonder how often does haste lead to unreturned affection?