Sir Patrick Spens

A very gloomy start to a book of poetry, and not a very auspicious beginning on a search for inspiration.

Poor Sir Patrick Spens, to say nothing of all the poor ladies waiting for their lords to come home, with their fans in their hands and their gold combs in their hair.

Perhaps the writer meant to show what happens when people do not heed their premonitions, or when pride and avarice (on the part of the king) outweigh common sense, causing the loss of lives.

What I keep thinking about, though, is the poor relatives of the dead sailors, waiting and hoping, and waiting and hoping, with this enormous hole torn into the fabric of their lives, unable to heal because they will never know for sure what happened to Sir Patrick and his sailors.

Of course, the same thing has happened countless times throughout the ages...to people whose loved ones have disappeared, whether through crime or wars or just vanishing without leaving word.

It made me think of many stories I've heard throughout my life, but most especially of a little boy my mother knew in Rotterdam when she was growing up, who lived down the street from her.  They were very fond of each other, even though they were very little, and thought of themselves as boyfriend and girlfriend.  After the Nazis invaded the Netherlands, he and his family disappeared. She remembers everyone wondering where they had gone because no one knew what was happening to the Jewish people.

When the war ended, neither he nor anyone in his family ever came back, and to this day, she's not certain of what happened to him.

Maybe it's easier for her to wonder than to actually know.

It's not knowing, however, that makes it impossible for her to forget.