I Remember

True Love

I remember when I first loved you.

I remember how you asked me out, standing in front of my high school locker. Your chin was quivering under a smile.

Looking back, you were as nervous as I was.

I remember, I barely remember, Kim’s party in the big yellow house on the corner.

You were my first.

We were so drunk, and I was amazed. I kept saying to myself “I’m doing IT. I’m DOING it!” and then “Why is he still wearing his shoes?”

I remember those shoes. Knock off Hush Puppies. (I had a similar pair when I was 8.)

I remember that olive drab army jacket, (or was it air force?)

I wore it always. Even under the humid Texas sun. It smelled like you. You always had nails in your pocket. I still have a few of those nails.

God, we were young!

Tight jeans and feathered hair. Concert tees and moccasin boots. Renaissance fairs and Jethro Tull.

And then I left. You left.

We both left. You went south. I went west. We spent years apart navigating the last years of our adolescence apart.

I came back. You were still gone. I asked. I looked.

I remember some guy pestering me to be his girlfriend. I didn’t like him. He said I was a goddess. OK. Sure. Let’s go out. What was your name again?

I remember hearing from somebody who went out of their way to come find me. To come tell me, “He is back in town. He is looking for you.”

I remember how you found me. Or maybe I found you.

I remember our first apartment which was really your apartment. We only stayed there a few months before needing a bigger apartment because we went camping and came home pregnant.

I remember your proposal. Down on one knee, chin quivering under a smile. This time, I said no. I was terrified.

I remember your tears when she was born. “I heard the music”, you said. You were such an amazing dad. We were children ourselves, still. I wasn’t as afraid.

I remember our wedding. I remember the rehearsal and forgetting our baby at home. Everybody thought somebody else had her.

I remember my expectations laying heavy, so heavy on your shoulders. You bore them but had expectations of your own.

I remember our second daughter, so tiny, so beautiful, so unexpected.

I remember my unreasonable anger, my distance from you. Postpartum depression looked different on me than other people. I wanted my babies. I just didn’t want you.

I remember our fights and hurtful words hurled drunkenly in bar parking lots. I believed all the bad and forgot all the good.

I remember you following me when I left. I went west again. This time, you went west, too.

I remember breaking your heart when I said the word divorce. You went north but just a little way. Two hours instead of 4 states.

I remember one last fuck in the back of my parent's station wagon. Your attempt to reconnect. My subconscious saying “Don’t go!”

I didn’t listen.

I remember depression so dark, too dark. I was alone. I tried too hard for independence. It broke me.

I don’t remember much about the hospital. I remember your visit. I couldn’t stop crying. I kept hearing those angry words hurled in the bar parking lot. “I’ll tell them you are unfit. I’ll tell them you are crazy.”

I remember your revenge. It was harsh. You were so hurt. It broke you a little, too.

I remember the moment I realized my biggest mistake. I wanted you back so badly. You haunted my dreams. You’ve always been my one and only.

I remember trying to replace you. It never worked. Nobody came close.

I remember trying to get in touch with our 20-year-old daughter. You texted me back instead.

We had 4, 5, 6-hour conversations about everything and nothing.

I remember your question “Did you really stop loving me?”

I never did. You never did.

I remember those first heady days after 17 years apart. Getting to know us. We’d known each other half our lives.

I remember remembering I used to stare at you for hours trying to picture what you would look like as an old man saying to myself “He is my forever.” and suddenly finding myself there in the future 26 years later. We weren’t old yet, but 17 years left its mark on both of us.

I remember we couldn’t stop staring. It was real, wasn’t it? You brought me a freshly picked wildflower every day.

I remember those first few months in 2010 when everything old was new. Our love. The sex.

I remember you bringing me princess coffee, waking me up with a kiss. I remember that like it was yesterday.

Because it was. We are still here, and I don’t need to remember. I can just reach out and touch your face, feel your love.

My soulmate. My one and only. I love you.