Spring 2015
a classroom trial in my honor. If I were found guilty, I’d receive a week’s detention.
She appointed Anna as the judge, Randy as my defense attorney, and Linus, the smartest boy in the
class, as the prosecuting attorney. I believed I was on trial for loving Anna.
When Mrs. Scarsdale signaled for the trial to begin, Anna said in a sonorous voice, “Bring forth the
guilty!” Although it pained her greatly, Mrs. Scarsdale pointed out I was innocent until proven guilty.
These were the only words I ever heard Anna speak regarding me.
The trial was quite comical. During the first minute, Ra ndy, who had watched one too many episodes
of Judd for the Defense, was so bombastic in the delivery of my defense, that Mrs. Scarsdale made him
stand out in the hallway for contempt of court. I was quickly proven guilty and I served a week’s detention
under Mrs. Scarsdale’s glare.
Both fifth and sixth grade went by without diluting our love for Anna, but Randy and I gave up on
her when we entered junior high at thirteen. By then, we knew Anna was unobtainable and there were
other pretty girls to consider.
Anna and I finished junior high and high school without ever speaking. A couple of years later in
college, I mentioned my former passion for Anna to my roommate Nick, who had attended the same
junior high and high school, and I asked him if he knew where she was and what she was doing.
He looked surprised. “Didn’t you hear about her?” he asked.
I grew still. “No, what?”
“She was drinking in a car with friends shortly after we graduated. They crashed, and she was killed.”
I felt a surprisingly deep grief for this girl who’d stirred my emotions so without ever smiling or
speaking to me. I also experienced an irrational stab of guilt.
Decades later, when I was in my forties, I had a vivid dream about Anna. We encountered each other
as adults in the Christmas-crowded O’Hare Airport on a day gray with wind and swirling snow. Anna
had the same long golden hair, and she wore a beautiful full-length red wool coat. She was distressed.
She was traveling home to see her mother in Arlington, Virginia, where we grew up, because her mother
had fallen very ill. Packed for an extended stay, Anna’s bags weighed too much, she was low on cash, and
her credit card was maxed out. She needed to pay her airline $100 to accept her bags. I gave her a $100
bill and wished her a safe journey. Her eyes shone with gratitude and affection. She put her arms around
me, and I returned her hug, which generated such a powerful wave of peace and joy within me that I
woke up.
I’ve never dreamed of Anna since, and when I think of her, I feel happy and content, as if our O’Hare
encounter actually happened.
How is it that this young girl pulled such strong emotions from the deepest recesses of my heart? I’m
fifty-eight now, so I’ve had many years to ponder this question. I’ve always been fascinated with myths
and fairy tales and how they are populated with Jungian archetypes, such as gods/goddesses, the devil,
witches, the child, the hero, the great/terrible mother/father, the trickster, and the wise old man/old
woman. Perhaps Anna represented a female deity, but what does it mean that Anna is the dead goddess?
So that’s Anna’s story.
The Linnet's Wings