STORY CONTEST
PAST LOVES DAY, 2009
EVEN IF you never see the person again, a significant former love remains with you. That woman or man is woven into the tapestry of your life – maybe as a subtle shading here and there, maybe as a vibrant pattern smack in the middle. Without those threads, the weaving would be something else. You would be someone else.
-From If Only I Could Tell You
Read Winning Stories From Previous Years
2009 Past Loves Story Contest Winners
FIRST PLACE
Frankly My Dear I Do Give a Damn
by Katie Eichele
On the rolling hillside of a small town country community, we sprouted. But all throughout our innocent school years, I believed you to be the plague. Your dark hair, mischief mahogany eyes and the tiniest freckles on your face, to me were contaminated with boy germs and unpleasantries. But growing up, there was hardly a moment when I ever saw you without a smile. And there was hardly a moment when I donned one.
I hid my unlikablities like the ravishing Miss Scarlet O'Hara. I was after something beyond my reach at the time. Freedom.
But fate kept drawing us together. For our last names fell in alphabetical order and you were glued to my back every waking school day. As the antagonist, you were the boy who teased me, pulled my hair, tattled on me for saying "go to hell", cheated off my homework, and poked me in the ribs just to gain my attention. You were brash, bold, and obnoxious. And I haughtily despised and ignored you from my peripherals as I saved myself for the dashing Rhett Butler, pretending to be the untouchable, unscathed Scarlet.
You lacked the gentility and swagger of the ambling Clark Gable - of course you were only a pubescent teen back then.
As seniors, we contended for GPA superiority; wanting to best each other. I felt a drive to always out do you and never knew why. Somedays I got ahead, somedays you'd knock me down and ohhh I'd want to rattle some cages then.
Still I knew without you, I'd never have the strength to save my own Tara or grow the calluses on my ego to withstand the hardships ahead.
We flittered about each other like bumble bees vying for the same honey, never acknowledging, yet always knowing something special was pollinating; both too shy, oblivious or stubborn to work together to construct the hive.
Our own sweet plantation just starting to blossom like the buds of young love.
Then there was chemistry. Literally having to work side-by-side as lab partners setting things ablaze. Burning them in flames of blistering blues, gaseous greens, and raging reds. But while we watched the Bunsen burner, everyone else eyed the chemistry igniting between us, flickering white hot. All assuming after high school, when we'd both become doctors, the day would come when bells and babies would follow.
And surely they almost did. For college was our sweet Savannah time.
We heated up with long, humid walks, hushed, private nights under the crescent moon, sitting on your lap sharing the pains of my betrayed childhood, removing the masks of troubled angst, abuse and regret inflicted by a love-famished family. I curled up in your arms and you soothed away my tears with loving kisses and gentle words.
When I thought I was nothing but broken and beaten, you nurtured and healed my wounds with soft strokes to my cheeks and lips, that low, rumbling voice, and the comforts of hospitality and love. You graced my body and soul in ways every young woman desires without spoiling me for when I was truly ready.
Then like Miss Scarlet, I lost you in the fog-amongst the mist of distance, separation, and time. You went away and I thought you didn't care. I called to you in my dreams, I cried for you in my heart, I prayed to the moon and the stars to guide you back. But I knew you had a path to follow and I knew mine was just beginning. And no matter how much I ran and chased after you, I knew if we were going to have that epic love tale, we'd have to have our own adventures and somehow they'd weave together in the end.
So I found another.
But without your openness and patience to help me find myself worthy of love, to help me gain my freedom and independence, I'd never be as blessed as I am now. For you cultivated my heart, readying it for joy.
And I thank you.
"Frankly my dear I do give a damn - for tomorrow is another day to love."
SECOND PLACE
More Than Pocket Change
by Abigail Sprague
As I write this, I realize that I am still eighteen years old. My past love was not that long ago, but that sanctuary we created together, using only our crossed fingers and rapidly beating hearts, feels like a lifetime ago.
Jack. Even his name sounds like an adventure, at least to me. I met him when I was still sixteen years old, innocent as ever, completely the opposite of this brilliantly blue eyed, brown haired, weed smoking boy who reeled me in by making me laugh. Not just a small giggle, but a laugh that starts deep down in your soul and keeps you smiling long after the joke is over, long after the person has left.
There were a lot of things wrong with our relationship, some of which I am only recognizing now. There was the disrespect, the lying, the cheating, and the overall downfall of our relationship. But before the long summer days began to grow shorter after our junior year in high school, there was a love that we swore would never die.
Every once in a while I try to bring back a memory in my mind, just to remind myself that yes, I did feel that free, that happy, that loved, once upon a time. Lately however, with my first year of college only three weeks away, the memories have become hazy. They've become harder to bring back. That is, all except this one.
Jack showed up at my front door unannounced that humid afternoon in May, smiling and confident, as usual. Upon entrance into my kitchen, he asked my mother's permission for me to drive down the Cape with his family to meet his grandparents. It was a school night and I had a history test the next day, but even my mother could not refuse those ocean blue eyes. As soon as we knew it was a definite yes, I ran upstairs to put on nicer clothes. He mentioned cashing in change at his bank, so we began collecting a shoebox full of coins we found scattered about my room.
His maroon colored Saab with the sub speakers and tinted windows pulled up to the bank just before the rain came. I placed the shoebox on the roof of his car and we stood there smiling at each other.
"Oh man, do you smell that rain?" he asked, just as I shouted, "I love the smell of rain!"
He grabbed my hand and kissed me in that moment and we ran inside to turn our coins into dollar bills.
The ride to his grandparents' house was spent holding hands.
We had a homemade Italian dinner with his family, and his grandmother instantly fell in love with me. I remember feeling at home at the kitchen table, like I belonged there. Like I could spend the rest of my life eating dinner with his family on hazy afternoons.
We fell asleep on the car ride home, our fingers entwined like the rest of our lives were supposed to be, or so we promised.
I know there is nothing spectacular about that story. No fireworks, no passionate kisses under the stars, no heartbreaking moment that makes you run for the tissue box. I could have told you about our watermelon flavored first kiss, the time he cried because he realized he had fallen in love with me, or the harsh ending to our love story. I even could have told you about the week I almost won him back again, how he wasn't at graduation, or how I'm starting a new life while he's staying in this town forever, though I believe he will do something great with his life...someday.
No, instead I decided to tell you about a simple day in our story. I'm realizing those are the moments that come back to me as clear as crystal. You see, Jack gave me more than a way to turn my change into cash. He gave me a way to turn my fears into dreams, my dreams into reality.
He gave me love. A love as pure and simple as that day in May.
THIRD PLACE
Money Cannot Buy Love
(anonymous)
Today I sit back in my plush mansion amidst luxury all alone. The threads of my life have too many self created knots. Every time I try hard to tie the broken ends of the thread, the knot only grows bigger. The invisible knots of my life pain each time I touch them, walking down the memory lane. I turn back to the golden pages of my life.
Abhilash Nayyar is the buried truth of my life. The truth I have shared with no one. His love was the blanket which always kept me warm. It all started when we were at H.L College in Ahmedabad, an ethnic city in Gujarat. The first day we were introduced by a common friend, while sitting at 'Red Rose'- a small café next to our college. Since then we took an instant liking towards each other. I fell for his deep voice, broad shoulders and tall frame. I had started observing the early morning sunlight that falls on the green leaves. I had started listening to the birds twittering around me and to my throbbing heart. I had started loving him.
We couldn't wait to get to college just to see each other. We talked at length over the phone daily. I could dial his number even in my sleep. We would listen to Ghazals (a short lyric poem in the form of a song) and Hindi movie songs over the phone and conveyed our love in different forms. He told me about his past failed relationship and I grew jealous. We couldn't meet often publicly so we started writing. We exchanged stories which had characters with different names, but feelings were purely ours. We held hands for the first time while watching a Hindi movie called ‘Taal'(Beat). The touch of the hair on his fingers made my body tickle.
We would often meet in the library, sometimes during break hours and sometimes during class hours. His musk cologne smelt so strong, his crisp blue shirt always buttoned up with just a bit of his chest hair visible, his jaw so broad and his chine with a cleft was so appealing. His deep husky voice still echoes in my ears. My heart yearns to be in his arms.
After class I would drive down to his dimly lit and barely furnished apartment in my white car. He would feed me dhal (lentils cooked with spices) served with rice and potatoes cooked in a south Indian way. His staple diet. To quench my thirst he would pour chilled cardamom flavoured water into my glass. When I would ask for dessert he would draw me closer and carry me into his bedroom and kiss me all over. We caressed each other and watched movies together lying naked. That was the sweetest dessert I have ever had. We wrote letters to each other about how we felt. He asked me how was my first kiss, to which I replied, "you tasted of onions and garlic"!
He taught me how to find pleasure in little things. He showed me how small gestures can win some one's heart. I had learnt to experience joy and peace in simple things.
Each time I sit alone in the temple, I ask God why he had snatched away Abhilash from my life; but the sad part is that I cannot blame anyone else but myself for losing my love. I had cheated on him while he was away. I was seeing another guy, just because he was earning a million dollars.
In my chase for money and status I killed our innocent love. The ugly face of guilt reappears every time I look into the mirror. There is a vacuum within me. I feel helpless and insecure. His absence has changed the way I look at the world now. My criteria of judging people based on their status and possessions' was so shallow. Over the years in the turmoil of saving my two marriages I had forgotten the essence of love. But what I cannot forget now is that money cannot buy love. My chase for wealth has ended into misery. I took too long to realize that true love is true wealth. Money cannot buy love.
FOURTH PLACE
Untitled
by Paxson Sherwin
I've heard some people say that they fell in love at first sight, but dear God, you annoyed the hell out of me at first.
We were at a party, just another bunch of high school kids pretending they were adults, fueling the fantasy with alcohol and smoke. I'd left the noise inside, wandering out to the balcony where I could be left with my own cigarettes and thoughts. I'd been feeling glum, alone in the crowd and the weather outside was oddly fitting.
The rain was pouring down so hard, I didn't even hear your footsteps as you sidled up beside me, plucking the cigarette from my lips. "These things will kill you, cowboy," your lips twisted into that crooked grin I'll never forget. You took a single drag, then held it out, "Not unless you share."
I grunted and snatched it back, determined not to let a pretty redhead ruin my foul mood. I can still taste your cherry lip balm as I inhaled, blowing the smoke out in the rain and doing my best to avoid looking into your eyes, bright as a cat's and twice as mischievous. In fact, I was doing such a good job of not looking at you I failed to notice you managed to snatch my cigarette from me again.
"Do you mind?" I asked, wishing I could kill with a glare. Or at least, wishing I could come up with something witty enough to make you go away.
Instead you laughed, that crooked smile on your face the whole time. "Course I don't mind." You puffed away on the cigarette, the ember on the end nowhere near as dazzling as your hair. "Why do you?" You held out the cigarette for me, as if it was yours and you were doing me the favor.
I grabbed it back, knowing I still had half a pack in the pocket of my jeans, but they didn't have the taste of your lips on them. "Because," I said, leaning forward and looking out into the rain. "Life sucks and then you die." I didn't want to talk about the things bothering me: work, school, a bipolar mother I had to practically force-feed her own medication so she wouldn't spend our grocery money on some zany scheme.
Before I knew it, I was holding the cigarette out for you. You took it, as if this were to be expected and shrugged. "That's why you got to find the good times when you can." Your eyes sparkled. "Like now." You grabbed me by the hand, pulling me along. "Let's dance."
I tried to think of a dozen things to say, to explain I couldn't dance, didn't even want to dance, but the best I could murmur was something about not wanting to go inside.
"What makes you think we're going inside?" You put the cigarette back in my lips with a wink. "Get ready."
"Wait, wha?" Before I could say anything more, you'd dragged me out into the rain, your laughter as pure as the water cascading down around us.
I can't remember much of the rest of that night. Just the cold fingers of the rain crawling down my back, the softness of your hand and the warmth of your body as we twirled like children in the rain. The thump of my heart rivaling the bass in the house for noise. Your sparkling green eyes. That crooked smile. Those cherry-flavored lips.
But I'll never forget what you taught me that night. That life does suck and then you die. Despite this though, or perhaps because of it, you have to grab on to the good moments all the more. Fight for them, make them yours, no matter if the sun is shining or the rain is pouring.
I'll always remember this. To this day, whenever I see a redhead with a crooked smile, I feel my heart leap into my throat and hope block out all common sense. Sadly though, it's never you and whenever this happens, I only wish for one thing.
I wish I had known your name.
HONORABLE MENTIONS (Eight Stories)
Untitled
by Helene Roumel
How is it possible to still think about you at least once a day after 41 years! I guess when I think about you, I revisit those all too familiar feelings of being in love for the first time. My mind and body react to just the visual memory of seeing you on campus and spending time with you. You were the first man I ever loved. Oh I had crushes on boys before meeting you but that's just it- they were boys. Now at 59 years old all memories of the excitement and those "Giggly-Girl" feelings wash over me and I remember what first love felt like and how important it was to all the loves and all of the relationships to follow.
I was the precocious Freshman girl with a raw talent in acting and a good idea on how I wanted my life to go. Never one for many boyfriends, I spent my teen years mostly home, day dreaming about romantic love. Like the Janis Ian song, "I knew the truth..love was meant for beauty queens" and I was far from that Atlantic City ideal...but I knew I could sing and act and make a crowd laugh and as I walked into the little theater that September day in 1968, I was ready to study and let love go.
Your voice startled me. You had been quietly watching me rehearse a monologue and in the back row I heard you say.."Damn, that was good! What's your name anyway, sweetie?" "Helene", I replied and off we went on a love affair of such intensity that every relationship afterwards was measured against you.
That first day, we talked about our mutual dreams and your compliments made me feel alive and though starved for attention, it was your listening heart, your attention to my comfort and your openness that drew me into your life. We were together all the time and in the evenings, I would study or rehearse shows and know that you were "With" someone else. I was "Special"; we were friends and in love but we were never physically involved. Today many would disregard my feelings at hearing this fact but that is the purity and ultimate romantic love us. All I could give at that time was given to you. My thoughts, my dreams, my heart and time with family on the weekends. I was a girl and although you were a man, that sexual tension between us would never be appeased.
Silly, or not doesn't matter and that is the lesson in this story. Love is many things. And only one part of it is the kiss, the touch, the renaissance death...all of it is desire to be together, to dream aloud, to laugh and understand each others' inner being. True sexual fullfillment would have been delicious but even without that, yours is the name that stirs my memory, yours is the heart I miss and time has not decreased any sense of the love I had and even now have for you.
TOMMY
by Monica A. Andermann
I wasn't sure what it was that made me like Tommy. Maybe it was the cowlick that popped up at the back of his crown or the cleft in his chin. Or maybe it was the urgent koosh, koosh of his brown corduroy pants as he ran down the hallway of our elementary school, late for class every morning. Looking back now, I see it was none of those things. It was the crayons.
Nothing thrilled the students of Mrs. Cohen's first grade class more than coloring time. On Tuesday and Friday afternoons, we closed our workbooks, put down our pencils and pink rubber erasers, and spent the last twenty minutes of the afternoon expressing our artistic selves. When Mrs. Cohen announced, "Coloring time!" a stampede would erupt down the six rows of neatly placed desks, ending at the back table where the two large coffee cans filled with crayons sat waiting. Twenty-five sets of small hands rummaged through the cans for the perfect shades. Blue, green, even an odd color with the strange name of "ochre," was grabbed quickly, yet none as fast as the bright magenta crayon I needed to complete my drawing of a summer bouquet. That color was a particular favorite of all the girls and I just wasn't quick enough to grab it before them. Whoever snared the prize crayon first would invariably raise it to the sky and cry out, "It's mine!" But never me.
One day there was a discontented rumbling around the coffee cans. Where was the magenta crayon? Had it rolled under the radiator and melted? Or worse, had it fallen under the table only to be swept up and disposed of by the nighttime custodian? Who could have been so careless to have lost the magenta crayon? Fingers pointed in all directions. As I watched the witch hunt unfold, Tommy came up behind me and laid his balled-up fist on my desk and while the others searched, he opened his fingers to reveal the magenta crayon. I batted my eyelashes in adoration and for the first time ever, noticed the cute way his mouth curled when he smiled. Week after week, Tommy would hand me the magenta crayon in our secret little way. Soon he began to bring me other colors, too. I needed only ask.
He may have been quick, but Tommy wasn't very good at math. If he began to stammer when called upon by Mrs. Cohen, I would hold up my fingers indicating the correct answer. So, from the sharing of our individual talents, a beautiful friendship unfolded. I often drew little flowers for him on pieces of scrap paper and watched as he smiled and then pushed the papers into the back of his desk. Proudly, he showed me the improving scores on his math tests and I kept a running list of the grades.
Then came the last day of school. I envisioned warm weather visits and play dates with Tommy as I and the other students cleaned out our desks. From behind me, I heard some chuckling and a grumble. As Tommy pulled out the stack of my hand drawn flowers, the other boys had begun to tease him.
"Do you like her?" one asked, pointing toward me. Tommy's face went expressionless. Even the cleft in his chin seemed to disappear. He shrugged his shoulders and with the same palm he had used to hand me the magenta crayon, he scrunched all my drawings together and promptly threw them in the trash.
There, at the age of six, I learned an important lesson: the difference between boys and girls isn't contained solely in their shorts, but slightly higher, too, in their hearts. In that moment, I discovered also that love and heartbreak go hand in hand and sometimes, pride is stronger than love. Most importantly though, my little friend taught me never to open my heart too quickly to any man offering the magenta crayon of love no matter how cute his smile may be. And while it surprised me then with what ease Tommy released me from his heart, I smile now knowing I came away the wiser for it.
Untitled
by John Cox
She had pale green eyes. I remember that more than anything. Pale and liquid in her small face. I was fifteen, I think, and she a year younger. A friend of my cousin's that I'd oft teased when we were children. But that winter there was no teasing.
It was, I can honestly say, the most passion I have ever felt in my life. The first time I felt that - fire- in my belly and groin that everyone, I hope, knows so well. But it wasn't just passion and lust. It was a brief brush of twin souls, as cheesy as that sounds.
She fascinated me. From the way she held her head, tilted to one side and totally engrossed when we spoke in private to the defiant way she stood with my arm around her in public, so uncomfortably aware that everyone derided me as a loser, a stoner, a long-haired fool in the fast- lane toward nowhere.
I was aware, too, that the people around us despised me for dirtying such a soft, sweet, and gentle beauty like her. She was a choir girl, pretty and smart and on the top of everyone's list. I was a dangerous flaw in the world's plan for her. She and I both knew it but, briefly, we didn't care.
A thousand memories crammed into such a short time of my life: Touching her face in the school's hallway. Sneaking kisses anywhere we thought we could be alone. The smell of her hair, clean and crisp. The bite of winter night-wind as I waited for her to come out her window. The warm pleasure of putting my arms around her. The sweet taste of cinammon on her tongue...
Wrenching knife-wounds in the soul. Her looking at the ground, face wet and hair hanging to hide her shamed eyes. The sharp bark of anger in my throat, righteous and teenage and firm in the sense that I knew best. Reeling drunk on bourbon and grief. The burn of a cigarette cherry on my wrist. The burn of her slap on my cheek. Her father's voice on the phone, telling me to stop calling.
And so it was. Two months of sweet tastes, shared breath and burning, blind, heedless passion. Followed by years of regret and avoided glances. Why did she turn from me? Maybe I turned from her. Maybe the world was right. She was blonde and pert and perfect. I was stoned and blue-jeans and long haired.
The best night: My grandparent's Lincoln, stolen for the night. A half-bottle of coconut rum and a quarter-pack of smokes. All forgotten as I ran my fingertips from her throat down, between her breasts to stop at her belly-button. Her laugh shrill and musical in the darkness.
Stop time there. Leave me the feeling of her skin on my skin and her clean, soapy scent mingled with the leather of the car and the stink of the cheap rum.
Leave me that. Take the rest.
Our Story
by Beth Carlson
He was quiet and scholarly. I was young and anything but level-headed. We had no mutual friends, not even knowledge of the other's existence. It was not likely our paths would cross, only a fool's chance, but on that day we struck gold.
Looking back now, a year and a half later, I can not remember quite everything. But certain images stand out in my mind, emotions caught in the current of reality and dreams deluded, but none the less beautiful... I remember the initial rush and excitement of a first date. Not long after came the understanding that we really might have something beautiful and deep. You see, there was more to us than met the eye. We were dreamers, passionate and unafraid.
I can recall snatches of memories. There is one of hot chocolate and a walk home in the snow. Hand in hand, it was like a scene from a paperback novel. The snow shimmering in the lamplight, flakes continued to fall around us as he walked me to the front door and gave me a tender kiss goodbye. Dressed to impress, he took me to the high school prom... oh so cliché and innocent. I still have a poem he wrote for me, one that would put Shakespeare to shame. It describes a blue-eyed beauty, with undeniable charm and a sweet, naive demeanor. I still can not believe that the girl described lovingly in classic prose is really me.
And then it was summer. Those sultry summer days stretched out endlessly, each more beautiful than the last. I can recall a night when we kissed in the rain, lightening flashing and not caring. That night there were no rules, no time, just youth, just us.
We were so different from the other couples. The bond was deeper, so above the frivolities of high school lust and whims. We swore we were in love, that we would get married. I can remember the time we were by the creek, giggling and laughing as we made wedding rings out of blades of grass. We named our future daughter, Cadence, at the age of seventeen.
I cried on the last day of summer. A gut feeling told me that when this day was done, things would never be the same. He reassured me, but I could see a glint of anxiety in his eyes. And I was right. The day that sweltering summer sun set, so did the heat of our love.
We tried to hold on, even as everything was breaking. We were engulfed in separate worlds, worlds that did not have a place for one another. When he said "I love you" it sounded like a plea. When I said "I love you" it sounded like a lie.
Sometimes things were like how they were before. We could recreate those summer days, that unthinking passion and devotion. Those days were truly beautiful, but they grew fewer in number.
He wanted me to grow up, to accept our love, commit and to hell with the rest of it. I could not accept these terms. I could not give up my life for a chance at our future. I was young and still wild at heart. He knew this. His final gift to me was setting me free. But he still expected me to be his girl one day. And I just could not do it.
To this day, we maintain a strained sort of friendship. It is one continuously haunted by memories. We both remember what it was like back in the days when we believed love was easy, and we fell for the alluring delusion.
But our love was not in vain. I taught him that there is indeed beauty in this world and that he deserves to be loved. He taught me what it means to fall in love. He gave me integrity and strength, two gifts I will always hold close. The memories will forever flow through my veins. I would not be who I am today without him.
You can call it what you will. A high school romance, a first love, a lesson learned right, a love gone wrong... It is our story.
Annabel Lee
by Danielle Abbatiello
When I met Bobby, who I affectionately refered to as My Bobby ' ironically taking possession of something that I would never actually own - he was a teenager. I was his (slightly) older boss.
We worked summers at a concession stand at the beach. Upon meeting him, I instantly found this young man charming and silly and funny and very intelligent. He made me laugh. But mostly, he made me feel special. My Bobby had this way of making everyone he met and interacted with feel special. I knew from the beginning that I wasn't the only one, alright, the only female that he made feel special, but as I sit here and write this, I am sure that the connection that we shared was unlike any other relationship that either of us shared with anyone else in the world. In fact, some of his friends, who also worked for me and didn't particularly like me, gave My Bobby a lot of grief over his relationship with me and over the affection that he obviously had for me.
Still, My Bobby never kowtowed to his friends. Instead, he agreed to attend one of my best friend's weddings with me. This wedding would become our one and only "date," the attendance of which was highly discussed by those we worked with and who speculated what was going to happen.
Truth is, and at the time, both of us were evasive about what happened, we shared a singular and spectular kiss. Our kiss was the type of kiss where time stopped in order for us capture every second. Even as I close my eyes now, I can see his hand reaching out, touching my chin, pulling me closer. I can see him leaning in and in what I can only describe as the purest moment of bliss that I'd ever experienced, I felt his soft, red lips touching mine. I can't say that our shared kiss was a romantic kiss, but what I can say is that our souls touched and that for the rest of my life I will forever feel connected to My Bobby and know that someone, somewhere, sometime, truly loved me.
Though I've kissed other men since then and though I've been in love and thought I've been loved by others since then, I have never felt that soul connection with anyone other than My Bobby. I often wonder if that means that I haven't really loved these other men or maybe they never really loved me because why else wouldn't I feel this soul connection? Then I think that maybe the connection My Bobby and I shared was strengthened by our lack of romantic fulfillment. Perhaps My Bobby is so dear to me because the memories of him intertwine with a time in my life that seems so long ago and idealized like a pleasant dream of people and places and unadulterated happiness. Whatever it is, Bobby holds a special place in my heart that I fear no one will ever match or live up too. Thus far, he remains my dearest and deepest love.
I no longer speak with My Bobby. We lost touch several years ago. I often think about him and hope that he is well and happy and making some woman feel as special as he once made me feel. I'm sure he is. I'm confident that he has a wonderfully successful life with a beautiful wife and lovely children. I smile when I think about him.
As for me, I teach English. Every semester I have my students read Edgar Allan Poe's poem Annabel Lee. I'd read it for the first time when I was in my junior year of high school. I was always attracted to the imagery of the poem. It takes place "in a kingdom by the sea" and speaks of " a love that was more than love." Every time I read the poem, I am transported back to specific period of my life where My Bobby was to me, what Annabel Lee was to the poet in the poem and I know that nothing "can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee."
When I Didn't Understand Butterflies
(anonymous)
When he left, to go back home and finish his studies, we parted as acquaintances. I was not the person he last wanted to see as he said his goodbyes and got into the taxi, and I didn't want to be there, watching him go. He was very much done trying to win my attention and affection while I had just finally become comfortable enough to admit to myself he was all I could think about. The first and only time I ever in words showed how much I cared, how very much I liked him, was in a birthday card I mailed after he had left. And all I had managed to write in the card was; I'm sorry I never told you often or enough how much I cared, as a friend and otherwise. I will always remember you fondly.
We were in college, he on exchange, me, a new transfer student. And for circumstances he had trouble explaining even to himself, as he often admitted, he fell head over heels for me. We had the typical, under-developed college relationship of sleepovers and zero one on one dates, seeing each other in the daylight hours only when the library beckoned us both. We had little in common and came from backgrounds that were almost amusingly opposite, he a well-to-do socialite and me a full scholarship student without a penny to my name. He was the romantic and I the independent girl who shunned chivalry he'd never been exposed to. What he outwardly fancied about me was how different I was while I inwardly toyed with why I favored his attention over that of other boys. And while he spent the evenings whispering sweetly to me and running his fingers through my hair as I fell asleep on his shoulder, I spent mine thinking about whether I was happy being a one-boy girl. He gave me more attention and warmth than I'd ever experienced before; he was selflessly kind. Yet I still never managed to grow enough in those few months to admit to myself I was falling hard, and worse yet, I never managed to tell him until it was too late.
The morning he didn't grab me for a kiss goodbye from another sleepover, I felt my heart start to sink. But I didn't turn back around. When he didn't call that night to see how my day had been I felt my knees shaking as I climbed into my bed. When he didn't appear in the cafeteria at noon as usual, I decided I wasn't hungry. About a week later, I finally gathered the courage to ask him to chat with me. It took everything in me to look him in the eyes and say, "I understand that this is too little too late, I just simply feel that I should have said it a very long time ago. I'm crazy about you and I always have been and I don't know why it was so hard for me to admit it, I'm sorry." He agreed it was too little too late, but that it was nice of me to tell him, that he knew from experience how hard it is to tell someone you like them when the other person has no intention of saying it back. Though his choice of words stung then, his response is what I keep with me now; a reminder of the risk we must learn to be willing to take with our hearts without having to be nudged along by someone else.
While we claimed to want to be friends, neither reached out to the other, and we ended the semester with politely distant goodbyes. Besides the birthday card I sent to show my respect and to make my one last confession, we've never spoken again; I purposely included no return address. While on the surface not necessarily a heart-warming tale, it is a relationship that I am reminded of constantly yet fondly because he is the person who taught me the importance of sacrificing pride to make room for emotions. He helped me grow up. He taught me its okay to love and be loved in return.
Forced to say Goodbye
by Meagan Brooks
Feelings for your first love never go away. They always remain perfect. Probably because they end before they really take flight. But in that moment of time, between the beginning and the end, something magical happens.
I met mine the summer I turned sixteen. I had just moved from the city to a town that, in my mind, barely existed. As far as I was concerned, my life had ended with the move. The first time I met him, nothing happened-no sparks, no music, and no cartoonish hearts above my head. He was just a boy-a tall, gangly, strange boy. When school started, I joined a running club, an attempt to keep my sanity. He joined the club too.
For months we ran together, through cornfields, down unpaved streets, and on the dusty outskirts of town. As the days passed, our relationship grew. We became friends. He was like a pocket of sunshine in my otherwise cloudy existence. He always had a smile, and he always had a joke. He made my life fun. Our conversations were light, our time together easy. I didn't realize I was falling in love. It seemed too simple.
It wasn't until the next summer that I realized I loved him. He had been gone for three days, but to me it felt like an eternity. And when he came back and told me of the other girls he had been around, I grew jealous. Those girls had no right to be around him; he was my friend. The realization that I loved him took me by surprise. I had not been expecting it.
One dark, snowy night, I ran past his house, and he came outside. We had promised each other a hug. I could have stayed in his arms forever, but eventually, we let go. After that night, things changed between us. We had declared our feelings and in doing so had formed an unbreakable bond. Our love was innocent, but it ran deep and satisfied our souls. We were always holding each other, perhaps we knew the end was near.
There are many reasons a first love doesn't work out. Mine was a matter of religion. Our Christian faiths were just different enough that my parents disapproved of the match. Like Romeo and Juliet before us, we tried to keep our love hidden, but this didn't work. When he was around, I couldn't hide my smile; I couldn't stop the excited glow from seeping into my eyes. The agony began. When we were together, life was blissful. When we were apart, my family pressure was intense and adamant. My parents worried about the depth of our relationship. They were right to be worried.
One night, a decision was made. I was never to see him again. In agony, I wrote him a letter-a last good bye.
How do you tell your soulmate that you can't be with them? How do you tell them that they are everything to you, and yet, still not enough? Somehow, I did, all the while feeling cruel and spineless and desperate. He wrote me back. He told me he only wished for my happiness and that someday I'd find someone else. The ache of that letter burnt like fire-a scorch that has never left.
The pain of losing him matched every heavenly joy of having him. It was just as intense and just as consuming. I was miserable without him, and the minute I was able to leave town, I did. But I have always looked back. I can't help it. His presence in my life changed me. He taught me to be happy; he taught me to smile. He showed me the simple joy in the nightmare that life sometimes is.
What would have happened if I had stood up to my family? In my heart, I know the truth. In my dreams, I've seen us together. Or maybe the memory of a perfect summer love is better than the reality of what a life together would have provided. Maybe it was meant to end before it began. Maybe this is the beauty of a first love.
Forgive me, babe
(anonymous)
He was too cool, without even trying, with his blond afro, sparkling blue eyes and his so-smooth demeanor. Karl partied hard and he shamelessly broke the law. He didn't go to school. He was definitely trouble and that made him even more attractive. It was like I knew I was drowning and didn't even care as long as he was looking my way.
I was fifteen and a pretty good student although I was always being told I wasn't living up to my potential. I was pretty boring. I read books and I didn't break the rules in any major way, but I wanted to; I ached to break the rules. And I did, starting with making him mine. But there was a price. He cheated on me and after we moved in together, he beat me. So I left him.
I went back to him and against all odds, things were better. We were better. We started working as a team, as a real couple. We set goals and planned a future together. We supported each other. Karl believed in me. He saw something in me I was never able to see in myself. He taught me to believe in myself. He told me I could do anything and I believed him. His positive energy rubbed off on me. I soaked in his adventurous spirit. Together we reached for the stars.
Then came the cancer and the fight for his life. I closed down our business to be by his side. He fought his disease with a courage and dignity I always believed was under all the cool bullshit. I was so proud of him. He beat a terminal diagnosis and along with the hell of cancer came an unexpected gift. We were closer than ever before, committed to each other, in love, appreciating life and determined to live it to the fullest.
We restarted our business. We bought property. In our early twenties we were determined to make our mark in the world. We worked hard, long days. Things were good, or so I thought.
*****
A locked briefcase.
Why was it locked? He said it was an accident.
Locked again.
"Why, babe?"
"Because there are syringes in there."
"Syringes, what do you mean?"
"I'm shooting dope."
It was beyond my comprehension. Anger, confusion, disbelief. Why? After all we'd been through? After all we'd accomplished? His partying had been down to a minimum or so I thought. I knew he had been abusing his pain meds, but he'd been cut off from those. Like a true addict, he had found something else.
Karl went into rehab. After a short while, he left the program and asked, no begged me, to let him come home. I said no, go back to rehab. I was scared - scared that with his drug use the pain of our early years would come back, a lifestyle I was no longer willing to accept.
Separated, everything spiraled out of control. Events happened that changed our lives forever, things that couldn't be taken back. And it was over.
Years later, I went through rehab myself and it was only then I understood the disease of addiction. Karl and I stayed in contact for some time. The last time I talked to him was years ago. I wanted him to know how much I missed him. I wanted to let him know he would always be the special one in my life. I told him that it was not him I rejected, but the lifestyle. He said he knew and he understood.
And now when I'm faced with a trying situation or a difficult challenge, I hear Karl telling me that I can do anything. I feel his spirit of encouragement and his belief in me and I push forward. I just wish I would have had as much faith in him as he had in me. I wish I had given him a gift as precious as he had given me.
Who knew? Who knew that he was such an awesome person, brave strong, smart, and energetic. I knew. I knew and yet somehow I forgot.
I hope you can forgive me, babe