A Tale of Two Clefs

Her name was Blaire. In true roman á clef fashion, her name is changed to protect the not so innocent. She was two years older than me. We met in high school band, and bonded over all things, Alan Rickman and our mutual love of British men that were far too old for us. We were an unlikely duo. Even our musical instruments of choice had different clefs. She played the trombone, and I played the flute. I was friends with mostly brass players. The woodwinds mostly smelled like cheap perfume and gossip. I switched to the oboe during orchestral season. It was a switch to say the least. I remember the band director shutting me in a pratice room with a tuba before even allowing me to attempt the double-reeded oboe.

"Blow through this," she said. When I could make a resonant sound for at least 15 uninterrupted seconds, I was ready. I felt like Neo in the Matrix, except she was showing me just how deep my lungs went.

Blaire couldn't stop gushing over how well this would prepare me for the carnal arts. "You'll be able to hold your breath for ages!"

I was less impressed with my ability to appease my peers, and more intent on not passing out. I was also too embarrased to ask how my ability to develop my lung strength had any bearing on my love life. I opted not to show my shame.

To an outsider, we were a contradiction. She was the stereotypical stoner burnout, and I was the typical ‘goody two shoes’. We both learned not to judge a book by its cover. While our peers were busy living the typical American high school experience, we were all too happy to indulge in a different time. She introduced me to 90s BBC dramas set in the 1890s, and I introduced her to her first taste of Thai food. We relished in our weirdness.

We had a few good years together before things went south for us both. I remember when her Mother died. It wasn't too long after she graduated. Blaire was her caretaker. Despite her Father and Brother living at home, she was left to take care of the entire family. It was heart-wrenching to watch her slowly live her life for everyone else, while watching the friend I knew waste away.

Blaire's mother was diabetic, but insisted on her nightly regimen of Coke and fried chicken. Blaire was more than happy to oblige, feeding her the very things that were slowly killing her. Why? To an onlooker, it was tantamount to abuse, but to her, it was love. It was misguided, but it was love nonetheless.

I should have known then that to her, love was complicated. It was enabling. It was a need to be needed. It was setting boundaries in all the wrong places. It was building walls where you didn't need them. It made me reconsider my own definitions of what love could, or should be.

Fast forward years later, and she is nowhere to be seen. My Father is dying, as people do, and Blaire is gone. I am friends with a ghost. A phantom of different time. I have set my boundaries, knowing that I deserve someone that will be there for me when I need them too. I love her still, but love is complicated. They say love is patient and love is kind, but it is neither. It can be ripped from us at any moment. Our challenge is to grasp it with both hands while we have it, in this moment, as it is the only time there is.