My Beloved died.

No, not Jane, not my kids or grandkids, none of you guys (q.e.d.), not Henry. None of the makers who plug in my moments and make them glow. Not God. But like them all, a dazzling, dizzying idea, for which I’ve lived, which made my life matter somehow.

I exaggerated my Beloved’s charms, as is a lover’s wont, and overlooked her flaws. Any imperfections impossible to ignore I declared negligible, quite beside the point. I sent flowers, wrote poems, even a book about her. For reasons scarcely fathomable, I called her her, though ideas have no gender. I wanted to know all about her, her antecedents, attributes, diagnoses, what made her tick. I blushed at my goo-goo eyes but that didn’t quench them. I was head-over-heels, besotted, absurd in my admiration. I sang to her – familiar songs and new ones. I pledged allegiance, conspicuously crossing my heart. I’d have died for her, if she’d asked.

Mine, as you may have guessed, is a romantic temperament. I fall into love – plop – like a plugged bird, then blather on, often to my Beloved’s discomfort. Not steady, even, “realistic” (an adjective I loathe), I need to be smitten, it seems. Love gives me purpose, fuels my fire. Unkindled by love, I languish, mope.

This need is a weakness, I suppose, but it’s a weakness that makes me strong. Losing a Beloved hurts – I’m sure I can’t survive – but then I do. Recalling bygone passions I smile – and wince – even half a century after. These were the moments I felt most fulfilled, exuberant, alive. I lived for love – and love brought me to life.

By now you’ll have guessed my Beloved’s identity. Oh, America, how you made me glow! I fell in love, I’m pretty sure, on the weekend beginning November 22, 1963. My parents permitted me to watch the unfolding events on our grainy TV. Jackie, John-John, Caroline, the caisson – who can forget! What a nation – to endure such a loss with such grace! I decided to be President, as many boys do. I longed to be closed in that flag-draped box.

Realistically – that modifier again! – I understood American exceptionalism was a daft delusion. Americans were mortals like other mortals, not darlings of the divine. Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, TR, FDR, JFK all had feet of clay (well, maybe not Lincoln). Our triumph over other nations could be explained by geography, demography, topography, climate, history, dumb luck. What nonsense to contend we deserved our good fortune! On the other hand…

Election Night 2016, my preening patriotism was knocked for a loop. Could my Beloved be so… ugly? I crinkled my nose as at milk gone sour, started noting blemishes. Could it be we were not the best? Our Founders had the best idea (except for making slaves three-fifths persons), timely heroes had rescued and/or improved our concept, but something, dear me, was amiss.

Election Night 2024 I faced the fact: I was out of love. Wakened from my dream, the recollection of my infatuation made me shudder with chagrin. I didn’t like the old songs anymore. I no longer cared about antecedents, diagnoses. The United States remained a place on the map, better than some, worse than others, but oh, what a disappointment. I’d keep living here because here was where I and most of my loved ones live. I’d pay my taxes, vote, keep my nose clean. But love? This warty, slovenly, stinky, nasty disfigurement? Yuk!

I miss my love – as I’ve missed each of my loves when they died. I’m sure I can’t survive – but then I do.