Regret / Donald Harris

Suppose, for starts, we just call it quits, and let everything go, 
at that. After all, you have known for a long time of my hope for
some surcease of suffering, sadness, sorrow, something that would be
a sufficient anodyne for all my ills. If there is no certainty but
death, yet death may sometimes bring a blessed relief, even though it
be spring, and a robin is trilling out melodic promises of ever
recurrent burgeonings. But the song of birds, the sight of flowers
can never obliterate the memory of that night at that bar, where I
should not have drunk that one more Pink Squirrel, even though it
helped me to loudly sing, along with the rest of the crowd, of
finding my thrill on Blueberry Hill, for afterward occurred the
accident, in which one person was killed, another left wheelchair
bound, and a third sustained head injuries whereby she was never
again properly mentally functional, and I am charged with such deep
regret, such cutting remorse, that ever and anon, tears spring 
into my eyes. I have lived long enough that youth has long since
passed me by, and most of the young do much the same. By many I am
forgotten, and by many others I am not even thought of, in the least,
at all. I have become a vague gray nondescript nonentity. How
insightful of Macbeth to recognize that his lady should have died
hereafter. So shall we all. If you suppose that God sends pain and
suffering, then you should suppose than an extirpation of such
is a godsend too. Did Hamlet perhaps have this in mind when he
considered someone making a quietas with a bare bodkin, in order to
shuffle off this mortal coil? But then you maintain that Ophelia
committed suicide out of a sense of maiden shame? May I be given
proof or instance as to how to understand your interpretation.

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