Oh, Maggie

After sharing an incandescent love, saying goodbye to a first is never easy

Dearest beloved Maggie,

I can barely write the words, but it’s over. Our relationship has fizzled. Our glowing, burning affair lasted so long, against such long odds, that I couldn’t let this moment pass without expressing what our union meant from my vantage point, considering all you gave from yours.

For 18 years, you never ceased to emit your truest colors, bright, bold and beautiful. Truly, you were one of the best choices I ever made. As times changed — through countless advances and despite the temptation of upgrading — I remained proud to call you mine.

On such a sad day, my mind drifts to all the private times we shared, when I sat idle while you selflessly performed for me. My gaze was fixed as you showed me the world, took me to places I’d never been.

You radiated such warmth. Our relationship was forever electric, from the day in 2007 when I applied for that Target credit card just to get the 10% discount, then carried you across the threshold — with the help of a friend, because you weighed so much.

Today, it’s my heart that’s heavy.

Oh, Maggie. My beautiful, devoted Magnavox Plasma TV. My incomparable first flatscreen.

As time marched on, I always wondered how and when — even if — it might end. I began to believe we’d make it to forever, no matter what was said back then of your flaws when compared to other options. Back when men on the prowl did research and accumulated testimonials from acquaintances for months about who to pursue.

You caught my eye with your perfect measurements, cutting an idyllic figure. And after deciding you were the one, I never looked back.

Then again, when we were together, you were always in front of me. But I digress.

As a boy, I dreamt of a time in the future when someone like you might be mine, in a way completing my journey to manhood. There were others before you, of course. Lesser models. But they meant nothing.

You were always the goal, and I had no doubt we’d be one day be together.

On that fateful morning, though, your incandescent love had dissipated. I knew it as soon as I tried to turn you on one more time and heard a stunning last gasp of sorts.

“POP!”

In disbelief, I stared at you in silence. Like I had for so many tens of thousands of hours before.

But this time your light was gone.

How could this be?

As the years passed, visitors had marveled at the longevity of our bond. No end was in sight. As you beamed in ultraviolet, I simply beamed. The very weekend before, you continued shining in advanced age when my brother in-law looked in awe at both of us.

“How many years has it been?” he asked.

You were gone less than 24 hours later.

I didn’t know what to do.

Oh, Maggie. Don’t hold it against me, but after hugging your lifeless frame (see above), I only let a few minutes pass before thinking of who could be next.

You must understand. Grief works at different rates for everyone.

I mean, is a family room without a big screen for everyone to look up at inbetween staring at our smaller screens even a family room at all?

Please know, Maggie, I was still processing the loss as, almost immediately, I mindlessly grabbed my keys and drove to BJ’s Wholesale to seek your replacement. And as I sat at a red light in the turn lane, so many of our memories played in my head. All of the times I screamed at you while you showed my favorite football team’s games. All of the times the Real Housewives screamed at each other while we laughed. All of the times during summers that I screamed at my son to turn you off and go outside.

And just then, I caught a glimpse of a mid-2000s red Hummer crossing the intersection. It was like a sign from you that I could move on, make new memories with another.

Because, as you know, a red Hummer was what we brought you home in for the first time.

I smiled. A red Hummer. We’d enlisted help from a friend who owned this ridiculous SUV, figuring you wouldn’t fit in our cars.

Oh, Maggie. Remember that day? Your box said to keep you upright at all times so your precious ionized gasses didn’t displace. Or something like that. But you were so big — even for a civilian-fitted military all-terrain vehicle — that we had no choice but to put you on your back for the drive.

I was so nervous the whole ride. Happy and uncertain and worried. The butterflies brought on by a long-sought, exciting new relationship that I desperately hoped would work out.

I’d never done something so crazy — opening a line of credit to buy one of you. But we were finally together. With you there in our family room, you gave my life a high-definition quality.

Laughter. Tears. Thrills. Disappointment. Surprise. You provided so many moments. A gamut of emotions.

Days before you left us, you gave us one more unforgettable memory as the wife and teenage son sat together before you to cheerfully re-watch a modern classic Christmas movie — including the fully nude sex scene that we had forgotten about in “Love Actually.”

Oh, Maggie. You were something. Through it all, strange as it is to say about us, what we shared was a love, actually.

We always knew you’d be there for us, vibrant and crisp. Right until the end.

Now, it’s over. Even though I never saw it coming, eventually there’s always a fade to black.

I long ago paid off that Target loan, and today I sought a way to pay you back, Maggie. For everything. The least I could do is turn the tables and become a projector for you.

So this was me, rolling your final credits.

With all my heart,

Josh