Open Apology to My Lakers

My beloved Lakers,

You are gone, and it’s my fault.  I took you for granted.  Oh I paid attention, but in that “I’m listening, but not really listening” sort of way.  You tried to tell me in early April that our love was falling apart, but I passed it off as merely a funk.  I mean, everyone goes through rough patches, right?  There was no reason to think we wouldn’t make it.  I just assumed we’d flip the switch on our romance and, come the summer, everything would return to its normal blissfulness.  That’s how it’s been pretty much the last three years, so why would this year be any different? 


Well because you said so, that’s why. And I didn’t listen.  I ignored the warning signs. It didn't help that I was working long hours, and that things we used to do together, you were left to do alone. When you suggested counseling as a last resort, I reluctantly accepted.  And during that first round of sessions, we seemed to be making progress.  Sure, it was sluggish at first, but in the end I felt like we were turning the corner.


In the first half-hour of our second round of sessions, we were our old selves.  Laughing and flirting.  Flirting with disaster, that is.  We became too comfortable.  In truth, that last glimpse of glory may have sealed our doom. When those new challenges arose, when reality reared its ugly head, we were too slow to react.  On Friday night, out of desperation, we went away for the weekend.  Sparks flew for a moment, but it was clear that our relationship was running on fumes.


Sunday, bloody Sunday.  The end came early, and ugly. Hurtful words weren’t enough; we reduced ourselves to physical torment.  We cut our weekend short, and that ride home was the longest I have ever endured.  It was too painful to even look at you.  Then instead of sticking out those last dreadful moments with you, I dropped you off and spent the day with my mother.  Watching baseball.  You hate baseball.  Somehow, my ignorance told me we still had a chance.  I thought you'd be home when I returned. I was wrong.


And now you are gone.  We didn’t even get the chance to meet at our favorite spot in June, to drink our favorite bubbly.  Here I sit in darkness, wondering where it all went wrong.  But you knew.  You tried to tell me. 


You are gone.  But you can’t be gone for good, can you?  Remember last year?  Wasn’t that the greatest feeling ever?  We can get back to that, I promise.  Next time I promise not to take you for granted. 


Will there be a next time?


It’s not even mid-May, and already you are gone.  You are gone, and it’s my fault.

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