In the months before she left for London, Karen and Peggy Hunt had an earnest conversation about the nature of fate. Both women hashed over a question: do things happen for a reason. The context of the conversation was such that “purpose” could arguably be substituted for “reason.” Both women came to the conclusion that things happened for a reason, and “what will be, will be.”
Although I don’t believe that fate or a divine hand guides the course of an individual’s life, I’ve encountered a number of coincidences that have, over time, heavily shaped and altered my actions toward and perceptions of the aftermath of the bombing of Pan Am 103. Had I not been watching television on the night of December 21st, and had I not read both accounts of the tragedy the next day, my reaction to the event might have been very different.
I find it interesting that even as I penned a poem motivated almost as much by my frustrations at Nazareth as by my anger over the lack of support for the families and friends rent by the Lockerbie bombings, Georgia Nucci created a template for a letter that would motivate me to action a month later. More would come into play years later as a broken link prevented me from sending a belated (and indirect) apology for the the poem, and a pair of missing files would encourage me to dig a little more deeply into the past, where I’d see my own words echoed back.
The latter coincidences led to the creation of this site and the motivation for my recent trip to Syracuse, where I finally gleaned some answers as to why, after 25 years, Lockerbie continues to resonate within me.
These coincidences pale in comparison with the story of Suzanne Miazga, a rose, and a friendship that blossomed into love over twin tragedies. Suzanne, a graduate student pursuing a degree in social work, was in seat 21A when the bomb exploded. While many of the victims fell in groups or clusters, Suzanne landed alone near the garage housing Lockerbie’s ambulances. George White, a paramedic, found her and covered her body. In the ensuing months, he planted a pink rose tree on the spot where Suzanne lost her life. He sent a photo of his simple memorial to Suzanne’s mother.
What he didn’t know, what he couldn’t know at the time, was that Suzanne’s favorite color was pink, and her favorite flower was the rose, so much so that friends and family members nicknamed her “Rose.”
Suzanne’s mother, Anna Marie, formed a fast friendship with George. Sadly, George White’s life was marked by tragedy as well when his wife succumbed to cancer. Both now shared the pain of losing loved ones too soon, but shared grief, time, and mutual friendship gave rise to a particularly close relationship. George now lives with Anna Marie in Upstate New York.
