Inspiration comes from strange and unique places at times. Tonight I feel compelled to write about a topic that I visit often in my life, whether that be paternal or romantic, and that would be love. Something someone said to me today, in addition to my friend candoor making an entry on the subject, has my mind in overdrive and rethinking loves of my past. I think this is one of the most dangerous pastimes a person could indulge oneself in. Nonetheless, however, I allow my mind to wander around the deep recesses and catacombs of my memories. As often are, some are good, some are bad, and some are downright horrible.
So in no particular order I will allow my fingers to share with you a few of the loves of my past. I consider this a writing experiment and as usual, freeform will rule this entry. When I attempt a more formal writing landscape I feel the formality ruins the tone and flavor of the original thought process. Very often an entire train of thought is completely lost and abandoned over the obsessive-compulsiveness of draconian grammar rules. (Damn you Sister Theresa!)
Also this is still just a diary, so if you read here often, you already know that I use writing as self-therapy. So very basically then, I am merely talking to myself! So have a good read or a good laugh, as long as the ending result is self reflection and if by chance I entertain you, or better yet, cause you yourself to reflect, then my job as writer will have been accomplished.

This is an ongoing project, and my intention is to write about different loves in a different entry. This is the first installment, and happens to be my first love.

If I close my eyes tightly and concentrate, I can still smell the dogwood blossoms that line the driveway of the County High School. Her hair is the lightest of browns, almost blonde, and it was flowing freely in the gentle spring breeze. A red ribbon was trying its best to contain her ponytail, but a wisp of hair escaped its grasp and lay across her face, framing her beautiful blue eyes. I stood there in awe, not more than mere inches from the most beautiful creature on the face of the earth. Just being in her presence had an effect on me unparallel to any other feeling or emotion at that time in my young life. All the drugs known to man could not recreate that feeling for me today, even if they were administered simultaneously. I stood there shaking like a newborn colt, kicking at imagined objects on the ground with the toe of my Ked's in a nervous, yet honed routine.

Carrying her books was the absolute highlight of my day, or life at that time for that matter, and I would stare at the big clock on the wall of my sixth period class until it seemed to run backwards. Then the bell would ring. Oh that glorious bell! How I miss it still. With screams of homework assignments and forthcoming tests mingling with the shuffle of student feet and screech of desks being shoved back I would shoot out of the door like a bullet. As I rounded the corner by the gym door I slapped the Coke machine as I had done everyday for the past several months. Like a baseball player taps home plate for good luck, I slapped my Coke machine for the same reason. Well, almost anyway. I wanted a homerun alright, but not in today�s use of the word. All I hoped for was enough guts to finally tell her how I felt about her and then perhaps kiss her. I know, they are weak goals by today�s standards, but I was twelve years old, it was spring, the flowers were blooming and I, was in love.

I stood there by the fence with both our books resting on either hip. Glancing down I could read her name lightly scribed in pencil on the homemade book cover. Hers were fashioned from a local grocery store chain. That week�s test papers were neatly folded in half and were used as bookmarks for the night�s homework all marked in red pen and all read 100%. �I guess I should go now� she said in a whisper. I nodded and lifted the barbed wire strand to allow her passage to her father�s place as I had everyday for the last month. As I was handing her books through the wire, one slipped and fell gently onto the soft clover below. We both reached for it, my hand landing atop hers. I looked up at her and right into her eyes. We locked gazes momentarily, then she blushed brightly and slipped her hand from mine, breaking the gaze. It was at that moment that I realized several things at once. The first was that we had breached a watermark in our young relationship, in that we had made physical contact. The second was when she averted her eyes from mine and I finished picking up the book, I noticed that there were initials scribbled on the back. Those initials were mine!

That particular day is one I shall hold fondly forever. It comes from a simpler time of innocence and holding hands, gentle smiles from across a fence, and skating together on Friday nights. It comes from feeling like you own the world, just because she touched your hand.

That relationship ended not long after the leaves of that year�s dogwoods fell. I had given her a gift that I had purchased with monies earned at an after school job and saved that entire year. It happened to be jewelry. In retrospect, I suppose that wasn�t the best of ideas, but then again, I was in love and had planned that gift for months. Her mother found it, brought it to the attention of her father, who in turn found out who I was, and seeing that I was �nobody but trash� (his words) forbid his daughter from ever so much as speaking to me again. I still have no idea what he threatened her with, but it worked.

�I can�t see you anymore.� She sniffled. We stood there by the fence while she told me the story, handed back the gift, and begged me to please not make this harder on her than it already was. I had heard what a demanding, authoritarian man her father was, so it left me with no choice really. My heart was broken, torn into shreds in a mere moment, but I didn�t want to cause her any more trouble than I already had. Because I lived on the wrong side of the railroad tracks from him, I was white trash and not suited for the companionship of his daughter. I watched her walk away that day, and the same person whom had given me the most excitement of my life was now sharing the most exquisite pain known to man, that of heartbreak.

I have quite obviously never forgotten her, nor any moment while with her, nor anything about her really. I went the majority of my life feeling like something had been stolen from me. I could not, however, know how she felt, or what other hideous things had been said about me.

I left that small town several years later, having honored her request, and not initiating any contact. It was the hardest two years of my life. I thought I would never see her again. I was wrong.

When I finally went back to that small town, it was to see my ailing father. Deciding to either torment me or just out of curiosity as to what I would do or say, my sister told me that she had something to show me. I crawled into her car and she started driving. �Do remember Mary?� she asked with a half smirk on her face. I told her that of course I did, and what about her I asked. �I have something to show you.� Was all she would reply? She parked the car in front of the county library and shut off the engine. �Go inside.� Was all she said.

I hadn�t been inside that old library in over 15 years. I looked around briefly and was about to decide that my sister was playing a cruel joke on me and leave. All I saw was pretty much the same old stuff that was there years ago, even some of the same books. I grabbed the handle to the front door and was walking out when I heard it. I heard a voice that while wasn�t immediately recognizable, stirred something inside me. Slowly I turned around and saw her.

She was a grown woman now, but there was no doubt it was her. She had been carrying an armful of books and had stopped halfway across the room when she spied me. �May I help you sir?� I heard her say in a voice just louder than a whisper. Her hair was in a ponytail, and being as unwilling as ever, a wisp of hair lay across the bridge of her nose, framing her eyes, just as I remembered it. I stood there, mouth agape I wouldn�t doubt, and managed a weak, �No Ma�am, I was just, looking for someone is all.� �Okay then. If you need something I�ll be re-shelving, just find me.� She replied. It was as she was turning to leave that she turned back to me and our eyes locked. I gazed, if only momentarily, into the eyes of the same little 12 year old girl who stood beside that fence so many years ago. With tears streaming down her face, she managed to say that she was sorry, and then we exchanged both our first, and our last kiss. Her words still echoing in my mind, she gave me a sad look and slowly turned away. I stood there imprisoned in my own mind flashing back and forth between the present day and that painful day so long ago. The older, wiser gentleman within me urged me out the door to leave her to her life. The twelve year old in me went out the door screaming and kicking, and is to this day still pouting over that decision.

An update in my sister�s car informs me that she graduated state college with honors, is the head county librarian, never misses a Sunday sermon, and was never married. She never really had any serious boyfriends, and is not gay. She also was not present at the prom, yet is always in charge of class reunions.

So why did I not tell her who I was? I don�t know for sure really. Maybe it was that I felt compelled to honor that promise so many years ago, or maybe it was that I am still from the wrong sides of the tracks and she doesn�t need to know I exist. Maybe I was afraid of how it would affect one or both of us, and perhaps I was twelve years old again and was simply scared out of my mind. Only one thing is certain, that young love is never forgotten. Young love is the sweetest, yet can sting the most.

Remember that gift to her? It wound up in my stepmother�s hands, as I had no use for it really. Mary still works at the county library, the dogwoods still bloom sweetly along the drive of the high school, and yes, dear reader, I am still, and always will be, in love with that little twelve year old girl standing beside the fence.

Good Night Diaryland!
xoxoxox

~tim