Sarajevo still

It occurs to me as I read this book that I once dated a man from Sarajevo. (Or maybe he was only a boy.  I was in my early twenties, and perhaps he was five years older.)  It occurs to me that he must have left Sarajevo in the nineties because of the war.  It occurs to me that he must have witnessed terrible things.  And it occurs to me now that he probably suffered terribly.

And I was only dimly aware of a war in Sarajevo.  Sarajevo only existed on the periphery of a world that was all about me, and I did not connect this young man with what little I knew.  Perhaps this contributed to my charm, the fact that I was too stupid to ask him any questions about his experience, about his life before moving to Canada.  More likely he wondered what was wrong with me.  But this was before I fell in love with the CBC and Peter Mansbridge.  I wish I had asked questions, I wish I had paid attention to the world.  I wish I still knew him today.


*