Of all the people I ever went to school with, I’m probably the easiest person to find—this, despite the fact that I share my name with a lot of other women. I haven’t married yet or changed my name, so people can still search for me using my “maiden” surname, and I’m the first to pop up on a Google search for “April Martinez”.

It’s easy because I’m everywhere on the net. I have this blog. I have my work online. I have accounts on a few network sites like Friendster and Facebook. People have interviewed me, linked to me, or somehow discussed me. So if anyone from my past ever wants to contact me, it’s as easy as a Google search and a bit of clicking, reading, writing, and sending.

…and I’m always pleased to get back in touch with people from my past.

But I have a hellish time finding anyone myself. I just spent the last couple of days, between packing, searching for people online, old classmates and friends, male and female, and I’ve been nothing but frustrated. Most of the women have gotten married so their names are changed. Most of the men have the most common of names, or they don’t seem to have any online footprints at all.

The result of it all is that I’ve started feeling so alone. I don’t know why. I just do.

I start to wonder what they’re doing now—where they live, what jobs they hold, how they spend their free time. In all the years that have passed, do they spare a thought for me, and do they wonder about me the same things that I do about them? Are they happy, unhappy? Do they think about their past fondly, or would they rather forget it? Do they have regrets and wonder what could have been, or do they think only of their future and what many things they have yet to do?

And I’ve started rewriting the past in my head in some way. I would have said yes at times when I said no, or no when I said yes. I would have taken a chance and done the very things I was so afraid to try.

Then I wonder where I’d be now if I did all that.

Sometimes I wonder if, at the end of my life, I’ll ever be given a chance to relive the life I’ve lived, but differently, knowing what I know now—as if that were an option given, like heaven or hell. Then I wonder if, at the end of my life, I’ll be so tired of living that I won’t care anyway and will just want to rest, not bother with perfecting an imperfect life.

I hate feeling this way, so melancholy, so full of regret.

It’s probably just as well that I can’t find the people for whom I’m searching. Perhaps it’s a sign that I should move on and live the rest of my days in such a way that I have no further regrets. Perhaps it means I should cull my mementos again.

…and this time, pack lightly.

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