"The Death of My Childhood"
I was seven years old when I met him. My family had just moved to the tight-knit community of a hopelessly rural town. Seven seems young now, but I remember it as a perfectly mature age. He was all of ten and the object of every little girl’s desire. He was the best-loved of the town-boys. I recall many girls fighting like mad cats for his affections. I’ve never been a lover of competitions and stayed far away from their battling frenzies.
He was always a loud, obnoxious child which did not particularly endear him to me. I hated any noise invading my personal space. One day, I excused myself from the town church service and hurried outside to go grab my baby sister’s bottle from the car. On the way, I took the opportunity of being alone to belt out my favorite lyrics. Closing the door, I jumped in surprise. He was leaning against the vehicle in as much confidence as a now-eleven-year-old could muster. His arms were crossed and his face marked with a sly grin. Blood rushed to my cheeks. His look said it all: “Aha, I’ve finally seen a crack in your shell.”
From that moment, changes in our daily interactions appeared. He followed me around town just to open every door for me. He stole my diary and returned it to me with a note that he had enjoyed my poetry. He sat close to me and wouldn’t let any of the other boys near. Still, I was shy and wasn’t going to exert myself until I heard him say the words “I love you.”
When I was thirteen, I was swinging idly on the park bench, trailing one bare foot on the ground and the other knee tucked up close to the alarming developments occurring in my chest. Heavily absorbed in a nineteenth-century novel, I hadn’t realized that he was standing over me, calling my name. Frustrated, he knocked the book out of my hand and kept my hand in his grip.
“Why won’t you ever listen to me?” he protested.
I looked into his deep brown eyes. Instantly, I felt my soul seared by their vulnerable expression. He leaned forward quickly and planted a swift kiss on my chapped lips. It knocked the breath right out of me. We both waited hesitantly, startled by the happening. Ducking his head abashedly, he dashed away.
We rarely spoke again, and we certainly didn’t exchange love you’s. I wonder what would have happened if we did. I focused on school work and preparing for college and developing my own little amateur business. He soon dashed off to explore the world, hiking through several obscure countries.
I’m sixteen now as I sit here in the town church. In the pew ahead of me, his following of lovers are sobbing violently. His coffin lies near the pulpit, shrouded in bouquets, shut tightly—they say the car accident left his body terribly mangled. His parents comfort each other. I sit in the back with my family in the un-relatives section.
Tears escape from my eyes, and I struggle to contain them. Why should I mourn for him? Wouldn’t others despise me for weeping? They thought I only barely knew him.
An ache clutches at my heart. There is something I feel for him that can never be forgotten. I don’t know if you would call it love. I’ve never loved someone before. Had he loved me?
We form a line to express our condolences to his family. I pause for a moment. If this had been some cheesy movie, she would have handed me a three-page note discovered amongst his belongings detailing how his sincerest affections for me magnified since that kiss. But his mother stares at me blankly. I give her the customary hug and pass by the coffin, running my palm along the oak edge. For just a minute, I imagine it to be a prominent cheekbone, mentally adding tanned leathery skin and the beginnings of a light brown beard.
I do not know if he loved me, or I, him. All I know is that he was the dearest part of my childhood. An abundance of cherished memories.
I bow my head in respect for the dead, the death of him and the death of my childhood. I raise my head, tears dried. This is my coming-of-age story.
I was seven years old when I met him. My family had just moved to the tight-knit community of a hopelessly rural town. Seven seems young now, but I remember it as a perfectly mature age. He was all of ten and the object of every little girl’s desire. He was the best-loved of the town-boys. I recall many girls fighting like mad cats for his affections. I’ve never been a lover of competitions and stayed far away from their battling frenzies.
He was always a loud, obnoxious child which did not particularly endear him to me. I hated any noise invading my personal space. One day, I excused myself from the town church service and hurried outside to go grab my baby sister’s bottle from the car. On the way, I took the opportunity of being alone to belt out my favorite lyrics. Closing the door, I jumped in surprise. He was leaning against the vehicle in as much confidence as a now-eleven-year-old could muster. His arms were crossed and his face marked with a sly grin. Blood rushed to my cheeks. His look said it all: “Aha, I’ve finally seen a crack in your shell.”
From that moment, changes in our daily interactions appeared. He followed me around town just to open every door for me. He stole my diary and returned it to me with a note that he had enjoyed my poetry. He sat close to me and wouldn’t let any of the other boys near. Still, I was shy and wasn’t going to exert myself until I heard him say the words “I love you.”
When I was thirteen, I was swinging idly on the park bench, trailing one bare foot on the ground and the other knee tucked up close to the alarming developments occurring in my chest. Heavily absorbed in a nineteenth-century novel, I hadn’t realized that he was standing over me, calling my name. Frustrated, he knocked the book out of my hand and kept my hand in his grip.
“Why won’t you ever listen to me?” he protested.
I looked into his deep brown eyes. Instantly, I felt my soul seared by their vulnerable expression. He leaned forward quickly and planted a swift kiss on my chapped lips. It knocked the breath right out of me. We both waited hesitantly, startled by the happening. Ducking his head abashedly, he dashed away.
We rarely spoke again, and we certainly didn’t exchange love you’s. I wonder what would have happened if we did. I focused on school work and preparing for college and developing my own little amateur business. He soon dashed off to explore the world, hiking through several obscure countries.
I’m sixteen now as I sit here in the town church. In the pew ahead of me, his following of lovers are sobbing violently. His coffin lies near the pulpit, shrouded in bouquets, shut tightly—they say the car accident left his body terribly mangled. His parents comfort each other. I sit in the back with my family in the un-relatives section.
Tears escape from my eyes, and I struggle to contain them. Why should I mourn for him? Wouldn’t others despise me for weeping? They thought I only barely knew him.
An ache clutches at my heart. There is something I feel for him that can never be forgotten. I don’t know if you would call it love. I’ve never loved someone before. Had he loved me?
We form a line to express our condolences to his family. I pause for a moment. If this had been some cheesy movie, she would have handed me a three-page note discovered amongst his belongings detailing how his sincerest affections for me magnified since that kiss. But his mother stares at me blankly. I give her the customary hug and pass by the coffin, running my palm along the oak edge. For just a minute, I imagine it to be a prominent cheekbone, mentally adding tanned leathery skin and the beginnings of a light brown beard.
I do not know if he loved me, or I, him. All I know is that he was the dearest part of my childhood. An abundance of cherished memories.
I bow my head in respect for the dead, the death of him and the death of my childhood. I raise my head, tears dried. This is my coming-of-age story.
I like how descriptive you were. Great job!