So I suppose when I saw a photo of an old harmonica that brought her name to mind.
We called her Mimi, but her name was Maria Rhatigan. She was born 31 May 1952 and died in an auto accident on a lonely road in the middle of the night in a town called Quogue in Suffolk County, New York. That was in March 1976. A short life filled with promise as she worked towards a degree in fine arts. I drove out a few days later and found her old Chevy. It did not seem damaged enough to cause her death, but if she did not wear a seat belt, that might have done it.
The car was parked alongside an old time gas station as if no one wanted to claim it, and perhaps no one did.
When I returned from combat loaded with unknown and undiagnosed PTSD, I often sought places of solitude where no one would bother me as I sat trying to feel my way through the mess I had tumbling inside my head.
I found a spot in a woods overlooking a harbor on the north shore of Long Island. I had my father's old harmonica, which I played while there.
Nearly every time I did, Mimi would wander into the woods and sit with me. She would not talk until I was ready and then we talked about the life around us not where I was while fighting, not whether or not I killed anyone, or maimed civilians as a soldier.
She was a gentle warm spirit and went through her much too short life with a kind smile, warm touch and never asked for anything but friendship in return.
I wish I had a photo of her, or even recalled the sound of her voice. I do recall she had a small red sailboat that we sat under when it rained. And I remember seeing her out in it one morning as if she and the breeze were all that was needed to complete a connection she alone might have felt with her world.
Why do we lose so many people like her long before they get to fulfill their dreams?
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