His photograph appeared in newspapers.
Volunteers searched the surrounding woods.
Police interviewed everyone who had been at the prom.
I answered the same questions over and over.
Did he seem upset?
No.
Did you argue?
No.
Did he mention going somewhere?
No.
Was he seeing someone else?
Absolutely not.
Did he have enemies?
Not that I knew of.
Had he ever talked about running away?
Never.
But investigators eventually began suggesting that Michael might have left voluntarily.
I refused to believe it.
“He wouldn’t leave me without saying goodbye.”
But they couldn’t tell me where he had gone.
And because there was no body, there was no funeral.
No grave.
No final moment.
Just an unanswered question.
Where was Michael?
Forty-One Years of Waiting
Life continued.
That’s the cruel thing about life.
It keeps moving even when you don’t.
I graduated.
I went to college.
I became a teacher.
My friends got married.
They bought houses.
They had children.
I attended weddings and baby showers and anniversary parties.
People occasionally asked why I was still single.
At first, I told them the truth.
“I’m waiting for Michael.”
Eventually, that answer made people uncomfortable.
So I stopped explaining.
I never stopped loving him.
Maybe that sounds impossible.
Maybe it sounds romantic.
Maybe it sounds foolish.
But grief without an ending is different from ordinary grief.
When someone dies, eventually you learn to say goodbye.
When someone disappears, your heart keeps leaving the door open.
For decades, part of me expected Michael to walk through it.
Every time the phone rang unexpectedly, I wondered.
Every time I saw someone from behind who had the same height and dark hair, my heart jumped.
I never married.
I had relationships, but none lasted.
