John and John

Finishing up reading John Leonard's last book, which was of course a compilation of his essays from his wife, Sue.  Even before his death, I envied her, once I heard their story.  I was oblivious to it while it was happening, although apparently it was quite the cause celebre at the time, at least among literary and other circles.  They were each married to other people when they met and fell madly in love and then left their spouses for each other.

She got her John, had him for many, many years.  When she lost him, she got to truly mourn him (probably still does, though I hope and trust the pain has eased for her by now).  The two Johns were a lot alike.  In looks, quite a bit.  In smarts, yes.  In alcoholism, although their paths diverged when JL became a recovering alcoholic, while JW became more of a drunk as he aged.

My John, as I think of him, was married when I met him and was married to that same woman until the day he died.  He was never mine.  He drunkenly pushed me away (metaphorically) a year before he died.  I knew he was ill and in the hospital a couple of months later, where I spoke to him on the phone.  It was the last time we spoke.  Even when his wife--his wife!--called me and said that he wanted to see me, I never saw him again.  I thought I'd be better off and so would he.  I don't know about him, but I live every day with the knowledge that I failed him.

I don't know if he would have forgiven me, but I know that I cannot.  I shouldn't be forgiven.  He was the man I loved more than anyone else on the planet and I abandoned him.  There's many reasons why I no longer look for another man in my life.  Among them is this: if I could do that to John, how would I treat someone I couldn't possibly love as much?

I already have too much to regret.