My First Love

I often wonder what became of that boy. You know, the one we all tend to find in our lifetime, if luck strikes. They nearly all have shiny hair and sparkled eyes; skin tanned from playing outside. The timbre of a voice that calls our name and our insides melt fully.

I used to wake up early on my summers off just to get a glimpse of him up the street, playing basketball with just him and the early light of sun. He was older than I was, which only made him more appealing.

Aren’t the best ones always older and wiser?

He was the epitome of a high school boy, dusty blond hair and blue eyes. But he held something more…a character, even as a child, I could see so clearly; admirable, strong, forever dedicated to those he loved. No one on our street ever spoke badly of him, he was quite literally everyone’s friend…beloved, and lucky for me, three houses up.

My earliest memory was with him, in my backyard, spinning me around with my arms stretched out, I was flying! But it was him, his attention and care that have forever stayed with me.

Yes, my love for him, seeped into my daily routine. The blinds of my room forever bent towards the house with beautiful grass. His family seemed perfect from my window view. Sisters heading off to college, parents always tending to their house and garden, together, quietly.

The Texas summers were long, with but a few friends. My bicycle was my vehicle to other worlds. I lived in the open air. The roof, my reading nook. My favorite tree, a throne to the stars.

And one day, he saw me riding around, circling his game, I had absolutely no shame.

“Do you want to play?” he said.

“I don’t know, my brothers always tell me I can’t, because I’m a girl.” I whispered.

“Do you want to learn?” sparkle eyes said.

I nodded.

“Come on, you must learn to dribble before you can shoot.” He handed me the basketball, the one HIS hands touched every day.

I was so shy back then, fading into the background was safest. But when he taught me to play the game, I wanted to be seen, finally, by him. I didn’t dress up or put makeup on, but I tried my hardest to play so well, he would want to hang out longer. Sometimes the sun would be setting and the mosquitos feasting before I was called home.

Each day brought the potentiality of a game, and as soon as I heard the dribble from my window, I got ready and biked up the street, like a little lost dog. He never said I couldn’t play, though sometimes older boys would push me away, he never was mean like them. He had to remind my own brother’s to be nice to me…if only.

Years and years of games were played out; sometimes other kids would partake. If you know street ball, there are hardly any rules. And as one of the only girls in the neighborhood, I had the advantage of being taller than most, which I used fully to crush their souls.

I used to get teased all the time, for my feminine qualities. The way I shot the ball was very delicate, but it didn’t stop me from getting three pointers down the line...right atop their small headed minds. I could see HIS smile in the corner of my eyes, knowing how hard I had worked at those shots when no one was watching. The many hours we played the game, not knowing what his routine brought to my life.

I think if it weren’t for THIS boy, I would have absolutely no hope for the male specimen. Dirty, teasing, mean, bullheaded, obnoxious losers. Even now, the universe usually sends me just one example, so I don’t fully lose hope.

I recall a day when he was ill, and I sent him a card hoping he got better, very soon. He thanked me and was surprised at the sentiment, I think. I wonder if boys know how we think of them, how we never wish death upon the kindest ones.

The dreaded day of all days came, the one I knew was impending. He was going to college. His family eventually moved away. The neighborhood was not entirely safe. I think a part of me died that day.

I can’t say I remember every detail of my past. My childhood memories have been thus selected for me, on a whim and a prayer. Trauma from other events I block from coming towards the front.

But when I think of summer, I think of him. When I think of basketball and determination, he comes right on through, like a lost angel telling me to keep trying...don’t give up.

Crushes in childhood are sometimes the only things that make the day ok when everything else is dark. I didn’t realize how dark it was, until I thought of him just now.

The basketball hoop in front of his house beckoning me to play, to feel safe, may have just saved me.

I thank all the gods in the universe for this gift, this friend. And the name, his name, is now my darling son’s. Another forever love.

May we remember these things, hold them close to our treasure chest of devotion. To keep going. To live another day, if we may be so lucky.

May we recall just one soul, and maybe it’s you, how you show up to the children around your frame and inside.

We are but fractals of a universe seeping in chaos and kindness. We get to choose who penetrates the corners of our soul. And sometimes fate hands us the angels we need, to begin, to live, to breathe, to see the flowering trees and basketball hoops of kindness.

So that we may give that back to the world, as we escape the umbrella of darkness, holding the ball and shooting our shot.

All is not lost.