Happy anniversary, R—

It’s been a year since we first re-discovered each other, hasn’t it?

That summer after eighth grade was sweet in how sad it was, and how doomed it was to fail. I couldn’t just stick it out. So we called it off, the last one in a long line of doomed middle school relationships. We’ll call them that, but they were as worthless as Monopoly money.

You never really gave up on me during the beginning of the school year. And when darling K— asked me about reconsidering starting the two of us up again, I balked. We had just started to figure out how to be friends again. How was I supposed to figure out how to pretend to love you so quickly?

But I did, my heart. I did it on December 4th, 2005. 2005. I might as well be talking about what happened decades ago, back when Francisco Franco was still dead. It feels like ages. I digress; I didn’t love you back then. I admit it. I was doing it because I figured out friendship was still just there, a feeble nothing, and if I lost you after a month or two, then that would be okay. I had never known you anyway. But by Christmas break, there was something sparking that I could feel and that I wanted; during the break, while we had our marathon late-night AIM conversations, I wouldn’t sign off until you let me, and I could tell you I loved you without lying. That was rapture, R—. I wanted nothing more but to love you, and it was doubly glorious to know that you wanted my love and you could give your own in return.

When the break ended, I found you before homeroom and sometimes we would walk around a little bit and sometimes you would have to do Spanish homework out of your broken textbook or maybe you had some History homework that was just confusing the heck out of you, so I would sit down next to you below your locker avoiding the gum on the little rolling combination thing and we would watch all of our friends come and go and every now and then we’d be told how cute we were together, which of course we were, and all that time Mrs. Koch would be standing sentry in the hallway to catch the unassuming rule-breakers, taking little notice of the two of us being bonded to each other until the bell for homeroom rang, which meant that we would hold each other tightly for a few brief seconds, and I would then run down to my homeroom, number 11, behind the lobby to make sure I wasn’t late because of you, and of course I never was, because I’m a fast kid, I know you’ve seen me run.

I waited through French and History and English until I could see you coming from your own 5/6 class out of the red hallway to the grounds of the school, and so we would walk together with some friends out to the senior high from the intermediate. You got cold often, my dearest one. I always caught your slim shape shivering or hearing you chatter your teeth that I loved to see in a smile. I told you this already, but I used to pray for cold days so I would have an excuse to hold you tight in my arms. Any excuse was good enough for me.

So it went until February, which has that holiday of the man who was martyred in its middle. Valentine’s Day; a bankrupt boy has no funds, but he has his writing, his sense of hopeless romanticism, and he has the Girl Scout Samoa cookies that you almost made your sweet self sick on, don’t you remember? I gave you a poem about you, a note about you, and those Samoas for you. I didn’t give you a lot, because I didn’t want you sick. Oh, my love…I feel a tear welling. Two. Three. Blink again and they’ll come out in a storm.

You kissed me on Valentine’s Day so shyly and sweetly, R—, that I felt immobile. You’re still a darling girl, you know.

We went on in bliss after that; our relationship was sealed like the envelope you find a wedding invitation in. Can I remember anything from March to May? No, of course not! Why would I? It was just day after day of you and me and all other people around us. But weren’t we the only ones in the world? I personally thought so. I started to take you for granted. I formulated a plan to steal you from your arranged wedding, The Graduate-style. “R—! R—!” My Eileen, my…oh why do I bother? Anyone else can compare us to any other couple ever. And like the rest, we were more unique and had something different from everyone else.

June came, and so did the freshman class trip to Six Flags. Mr. Hatz came in his best t-shirt and shorts and backwards Underarmour hat, and we found each other in the mid-morning mist, both of us in maroon Class of 2009 shirts like hundreds of others. I went on the little kids’ rides with you and S—, and we found others and we had a good time. It was sunny and felt like summer and it was simply a beautiful day in Jackson Township. The day has melted into this fuzzy bright orange-yellow cloud into my head, the color linked to joy and pure happiness in my mind. Oh, I must have made you up inside my head.

I tried to win you a stuffed animal while you went on Nitro (the mere thought of which scared you to death, but, you brave girl, you went through it anyway), but S— shot better than I at the last second, and she won the small white dog with the black spot around its eye. She gallantly gave me the stuffed puppy, and I shyly pressed the fuzzy little thing into your arms as you found us after coming off the ride I should have followed you onto. You named him Dishwasher II because I had made the mistake of telling you about my rainbow colored Triceratops that I had christened Dishwasher when I was just a three year old. He appreciates the homage, by the way.

It went on like that, until we had to go back to the buses, ending what was arguably the best day of my life.

And after that, school ended shortly after. We wrote each other realistic notes in each others’ yearbooks that reeked of sentimentality, but in a way, optimism. We knew we couldn’t make it through the summer, but we were damn well going to try. Damned if we weren’t, damned if we weren’t going to make it through to September, when we’d see each other and we’d click click click again.

You had to go to weddings and I had state championships to play for baseball and a mission trip in Mississippi to be at, but I saw you at the pool twice during the summer. Once, I saw you come through the gate at the front, walking out into the concrete and chlorine water expanse, and I immediately heaved myself out of the pool and half-ran, half-walked to you, and you did the same to me, and I apologized for being soaking wet all over and you didn’t care and we held each other for a little while but not long enough to be conspicuous because I had never told my father about the two of us and he was in clear viewing distance. You hadn’t ever learned to swim either, but I held on to you in the water and didn’t let you go (except once or twice when I tried to encourage you to swim but you wouldn’t do it because my roller coaster-riding femme was afraid of drowning in the pool with lifeguards and he who would guard her life with lethal force all around her) and you spent a happy day there with me. We held hands over by the small green square field, and eventually I won a few games of killer Frisbee so you’d remember I was good at sports, to impress you.

That was the last happy day we had, wasn’t it.

It was the last happy day where we still loved each other.

Wasn’t it?

I would say so.

I wish I remembered the date. Dates make things real.

But so it goes, I saw you once more that summer. You came to the pool again, and there was no chemistry, nothing left. I held your hand for a few seconds but we both let go shortly after when it didn’t feel right. Absence made our hearts start to drift.

August 11th, 2006. I had come from my best friend’s early birthday party at, where else? The pool. And you were waiting for me online, and we dodged the subject for a little, trying to get the other to say “I don’t think we’re working out anymore.” Eventually I coerced you to, and you did, and then I did what I have tortured myself over thinking about during my free time, whether or not I should have said “I agree” and let it end, or if I should have said, “I realize we’re drifting, is there anything that we can do about it or do you just want to let it die?” and then maybe, if she had picked the latter, we could have tried to fix it and instead we didn’t, we just let it die. We promised each other, like everyone always does, to remain friends. Over time, this vision of what you and me had been, came back in segments. I tried to learn again how to see my name, a one syllable “T—,” instead of the more flowing “T— and R—,” or “R— and T—.” I think the first one flows better, just the way the syllables align. It’s been a struggle, but I’m fighting my way out from what I remember you being. The facts and the not-facts.

I could write a book about you and me, you know. I haven’t even scratched the surface of what the two of us were or did or could have done or what our freshman year was like, just because it’s nearing eleven o’clock in the night-time, and we have zero-mod together tomorrow.

But darling, one year ago, fifty-two weeks ago, three hundred sixty-five days ago, eight thousand seven hundred sixty hours ago, five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes ago…I asked you if you would consent to being my girlfriend. And like Molly Bloom, you said I will Yes.

A year ago, you told me that you had never quite gotten over me. I was appalled that you had not put up more of a fight to try and keep me during that summer before freshman year. I think I know now what it was that held you back, dear heart.