Only the important parts

This is not an exciting story. Maybe I shouldn’t say so up front, but I think it’s best to be clear about these things up front, to avoid later disappointment.

It also ends poorly. That is, it doesn’t really have an ending as such, yet. That doesn't mean it isn't good. I just think it's best to adjust your expectations.

It begins when I was eight. Did I mention this is a true story? I should have; it is.

I was eight and visiting my cousin’s for a few days. Mostly, I remember going to church. I remember the “greeting” part of the service, where everyone shakes hands and says hello. I recall being introduced to a nice lady with a warm smile. Her hand rested on her very round belly. As I was being dismissed for children’s church, I heard my aunt ask her how she had been feeling this time around and if she had picked out a name yet. -She’ll come into the story again later; this story doesn’t include non-essential characters.

Children’s Church was down in the basement. There, we watched a puppet show and heard bible stories. Remembering last week’s bible verse would earn you a chocolate coin. As a visitor, I was out of the running, and this struck me as mildly unfair. I was an excellent Bible verse reciter, given adequate preparation. But I took the loss on the chin - well, that’s more of an assumption than a memory. It’s true to my character at that age, however, so I’ll risk the possibility of a minor factual inaccuracy in service of a bigger truth.

After church, my cousins went off to play with their friends. I’ll be honest here- I don’t actually remember what they were doing or where they went; it was a long time ago. All I know for sure is that as the only girl in the family, I found myself alone, skipping along the old wooden benches that lined the walls of the church basement. My shiny white shoes making pleasant tappy noises, and my dress swooshing behind me as I imagined myself in that scene from The Sound of Music, the one in the gazebo. I have since been informed that I was, in fact, humming the song aloud. I had thought the humming was an inaudible sort of internal affair, but apparently it wasn’t. I trust my source here. So, I was skipping and humming about being “16 going on 17.”

Then, I saw this blond boy.

One of my cousins’ friends- and this may be the most exciting part of the whole story- he was glancing around furtively before sneaking behind the curtain into the puppet stage area. It was obvious we were not supposed to go back there. I don’t remember exactly what made it obvious, but I know that it was obvious enough that I- a visitor- understood immediately that he had nefarious intentions. Of course, I followed him to tell him to stop doing whatever he was going to do. Yes, I was that kind of kid, if my penchant for bible verse memorization and the stoic acceptance of having no chance at the chocolate coin hadn’t made it clear already, it’s all on the table now. Consider my character, at 8, developed.

Behind the curtain, I found the sneaky blond boy liberating a single gold coin from the abandoned coin pouch. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I do know that I attempted to intervene. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, he offered some sound logic in his defense; he had remembered the bible verse. He proved this by reciting it. If the goal of the candy was to help us remember bible verses, then he, who now knew the verse, should be entitled to the chocolate. I think if he had been taking more than one coin, I would have doubted his sincerity. As it was, he was clearly following a moral code of sorts. His own sort of outlaw ethics, and I had to respect that. -It is possible that my judgment was clouded by my own sweet tooth, as this new brand of morality opened up opportunities for me as well. And so, we crept out from behind the stage. The only evidence of our questionable conduct the two foil wrappers hidden in the blond boy’s pocket. Church dresses never had pockets.

———-

When I was 14- yes, we’re jumping ahead; when a story isn’t exciting, brevity is a must- in the aftermath of my parents’ messy and traumatic divorce, I found myself living with my cousins for a time. I should note here that it was not by choice; I had one parent whom I refused to live with and one parent who refused to raise me. Unfortunately, they were not the same parent. So, lacking other options, my aunt and uncle took me in. It was a difficult time. Suffice it to say, I was sad and withdrawn. But a stoic child is bound to become a stoic teen. I kept a stiff upper lip, as they say; I only cried behind closed doors, and everyone behaved as if I was perfectly fine and not a total mess at all. By “everyone” here, I mean my family, of course, but also the para-social group I found myself in as I assimilated, unwillingly, into my cousin’s life. Mostly, that meant their church and their basketball league. Basically, it meant me sitting quietly on the sidelines, contentedly protesting this life I did not choose.

But there was this blonde boy.

On the basketball team. Tall and gangly as any 15-year-old you’ve ever seen. A friend of my cousins. And whenever he looked at me, I felt like I was going to crack open. As if I was about to break into big heaving sobs on the sideline of the basketball court. I’m not sure why. I still can’t explain it exactly, except to say that it felt as if he could see me when no one else could. As if my gig was up. My cover was blown. He looked right at me when everyone else looked at the mask I was holding up, and I almost couldn’t bear it. I was sure I had been found out for the brokenhearted, hollowed-out wreck that I was. So, obviously, I avoided him like the plague.

But only for a while.

You’ve probably guessed where this is going. Here we can queue up a mental montage of our eventual budding friendship, the jokes that brought us to tears when no one else was laughing. The constant emails and IMs (thanks, AOL), sharing the things we never said aloud to anyone else, staying up too late chatting about nothing. and always, always insisting we were only friends.

Then the 17-year-old montage: He was the first to say I love you; we weren’t even dating. Then we were. And there was a hand that was mine to hold, and there was my first kiss and the way the smell of him lit up whole new parts of my brain. And the break-up, and the back-together. And the moonlit walks in the park under the cherry blossoms, when everything took on a hazy, dreamlike quality.

I was 20 when we got married. -And yes, I agree that is a terrible idea, too young, of course. I don’t advise it, and I wouldn’t change it.

On our wedding day, that nice lady from my cousin’s old church- I told you she’d be back- told me I was the daughter she had always wanted. And that yet-to-be-named bump who had been in her belly, my cheeky brother-in-law, cut in on our first dance and managed to step on my toes.

And the blonde boy and I grew up together. In keeping with my commitment to transparency, it should be noted that my blonde boy is now a bit more gray than blond. And because this is a true story, I will admit that we’ve bruised each other’s feelings a little, sometimes. But we’ve mostly laughed, a lot, at jokes no one else finds funny, and have never stopped liking each other more than we like everyone else.

Now, this is the tricky part. How do you end a story that does not yet have an ending? You may have noticed that love stories usually end somewhere in the middle, as if they lasted forever- happily ever after, we like to say. But, laws of mortality being what they are, that isn’t how things actually work.

Our story will have an end someday. And while I haven’t ruled out the possibility that we may get another lifetime to come back and find each other again, it’s hardly a solid plan. So, with future lives not guaranteed, I’m forced to rely on this one. To make the most of every evening on the couch and every walk in the park. The long, rambling talks and the comfortable silences- I try to be present for each and every moment. To let the time stretch as slowly as my mind can conceive. To savor each moment like a stolen chocolate coin.

In this one, this moment right now, I’m listening to him -my not-so-blond boy with his outlaw ethics and those eyes that have never stopped seeing me- I hear him grinding his coffee. I hear the clink of the spoon as he measures out my tea. The kettle is hot, and I hear the pours. First mine, then his. In a moment, he’ll bring me my mug and sit here beside me with his. And then, I will have to continue the rest of the story without you.