And yet some never do move on. I wonder if that's so unnatural after all. It's certainly the stuff of romance. When I think of romance and death and bad lungs, I think of Keats. And for every Keats, who died young, there is a Fanny Brawne, who did not. Fanny was Keats' betrothed. Here's what she wrote to Fanny Keats, his sister, just after his death in far-away Rome. You might find some of the sentiments familiar:
"I am patient, resigned, very resigned. I know my Keats is happy, I know my Keats is happy, happier a thousand times than he could have been here, for Fanny, you do not, you never can know how much he has suffered. So much that I do believe, were it in my power I would not bring him back. All that grieves me now is that I was not with him, and so near it as I was. . . . he at least was never deceived about his complaint, though the Doctors were ignorant and unfeeling enough to send him to that wretched country to die, for it is now known that his recovery was impossible before he left us, and he might have died here with so many friends to soothe him and me, me with him. All we have to console ourselves with is the great joy he felt that all his misfortunes were at an end."
Fanny Brawne waited twelve years and then married a regular guy named Lindon, had a bunch of kids, and lived to be 65. But she kept all of Keats' letter in secret, not wanting to offend her husband. By all accounts she never even mentioned Keats except to her children, again in secrecy, and her identity as Keats' lover never came out until years after her death. For all this, she has been maligned by Keats aficionados for 130 years. But what was she supposed to do? By keeping the letters, she remained faithful to his memory. But it was understandably not in her nature to be faithful to him as a man, at least not forever. She waited a long time, and then she began a new life, as I assume most people do. Others, however, possess a different nature and never do start again, remaining bound by whatever still abides in their hearts -- a thing deeper than mere memory. For them, I guess that is a kind of fulfillment. I'm not sure that either type copes better than the other. They just cope differently.
We can tell our lovers to move on after we're gone, and it might be a reasonable and even loving gesture. But the decision is never really ours, is it? And the consequences of it certainly aren't ours. Either way, the heart always seems to ache somehow, and we can't as a rule know which way a person ought to choose or when. That answer is beyond reason. I do know I'd rather be the one to go before rather than after, but that's the easiest choice. So I feel for you, Allie.
Q
