Obviously, none of you will know who this is, so
names are
inconsequential. Only the story matters here, folks.
The Hyacinth girl in
The Waste Land has intrigued me ever since I first read The Waste Land. This is spelled out a bit more clearly in my writeup specifically on the hyacinth girl, but basically, I think she represents forlornness the
ghosts of memory.
So here's the story of my personal hyacinth girl. Laugh, cry, have me committed, it's all up to you.
It was the summer before my fifteenth
birthday, the first time I met Lisa.
Immediately I was drawn to her, something that happens to people once in a while, I guess.
Something about her bright eyes really got to me, I guess. Or maybe it was her supreme self-confidence. No
matter, she was easily the most
interesting person I had ever met, and still is. And as the weeks went by, we were
young together, resting under the
dogwoods, idly chattering away entire days of that summer, chasing each other around and around under that great big
weeping willow in my backyard. She wasn't
beautiful, at least not outwardly. She had buck teeth, and her hair was eternally a
mess. But I loved her anyway - I loved that hair, I loved the feeling of it between my
fingers. I loved the smell of it. I loved
everything about that girl. And life was good.
The summer drew to a close, as summers are wont to do, and I went off to my boarding school, and Lisa stayed behind. Not a day passed, though, when I wasn't thinking of her. Hell, not an hour, minute, nor second passed without a thought of Lisa. We wrote letters frequently to each other, long, rambling things that never quite had a point except to say "I love you" at the end. We were going to go to college together, maybe get married after. And then, one day when I was 16 years old, I got a phone call. Lisa was dead. I almost died. I did die, in a way - at least part of me did. I know it sounds trite and cliched, but it's the truth. I put my fist through the flimsy wall of our dorm, several times, and when someone tried to stop me, I put his head through the wall. Eventually, though, I calmed down enough to get back on the phone. Lisa had died suddenly, on the Ultimate field - she had a massive stroke, she was dead before she hit the ground. The doctors assured me it was painless, but that was little comfort. I cried myself to sleep for a week. And although a good cry helps every so often, I never really recovered from her death. I'm more guarded now, less willing or able to open up to others, less willing to risk being hurt again.
Her memory haunts me, you know. I write letters to her, every one of my poems has been written to her. She keeps me awake nights. It's been about two years, and she still haunts me. But I'm not sure I'd have it any other way. To have it any other way would be to betray my love, my darling, my hyacinth girl.