Things went wrong the first time on what I refer to as the ‘Day of Swearing’.

I’d made a half dozen or so brief trips back, just experimenting, just looking. They went fine. I was fine. Everything was fine until I thought of her.

She was the love of my life for 1 year, 3 months, and 12 days, at which point I found out she slept with my brother. The relationship sort of derailed after that. Still, she’s in my head. She just pops in, as does that lovely day I first met her.

The bar was Fick’s, the night rather chilly, the smell of ale and sweat pungent to say the least, and the music was a crazy guy wailing on these little hand drums. The thought lingered, and I was there. I was really there.

She was there too, radiant as the day I met her…cause it was the day I met her. At the mere sight of her three years worth of longing, self-reproach, bitterness, and betrayal bubbled through my nostalgic haze.

That’s when I started swearing.

That’s when I learned about messing up the past…the first time.