Like the storyline of your favorite fiction series that the Author never finished and never explained why. That’s 43 to me. The story was a great one and its heroine unmatched, but to my thinking, it's unfinished.
And, yes, it was so good. Every chapter, every line, every word. Late nights turned into early mornings. I wanted to know how it would end. I couldn’t quit reading, but then it all stopped. It was over before it was over.
No epilogue or afterword. Just empty shelf space reserved for where the next volume will never go.
It’s the 43rd anniversary of your birth, but 43 is only fantasy. It never happened.
Oh, how I longed to know the rest of your story! The return back, the resolution, the changes that resulted from the fight. I think we did get those things, individually. You were resolved; I was resolved. Yet, in this life, we can never enjoy that victory together.
I'm writing my half of that epilogue so you can read it when we meet again on that day in the land of endless sun. I can’t wait to see you, Anne-Marie. There’s all kinds of story I need to tell you.
I don’t want to live my life in search of a perfect ending. I've got to learn to love the story as is.
Perfection will never be realized on this Earth. Those things only happen in fiction.