…the almost right word

This is the first in a series of posts I will write about my relationship experiences…more to come.

I keep rewriting this post. I save it, publish it, and then click unpublish hours later. It’s not that I’m hesitant to share it, it’s that I’m hesitant about the message it will send.

He was not, and is not, the love of my life. He was, however, my first love. And for that, I will always love him — not in the I-would-do-anything-to-get-back-together-with-him sort of way. Our relationship worked when we were young. I do not believe we are meant to relive it. I do not wish to. I consider him one of my true best friends and I always will, no matter the geographical distance between us.

We met at sixteen, at sleep-away camp. We bonded over Ginsberg. He was my first kiss — on the basketball courts, at night, laying and looking up at the stars.

I loved his bedroom. I remember that vividly. He had two Picasso prints on his wall. They have since become my favorite Picasso’s — they always make me think of him. We would laze in his room, listening to tapes of Jack Kerouac and old Grateful Dead records. We would go out with friends, smoking on a dark, vacant, midnight golf course. We’d laugh and take pictures. He made me laugh a lot.

When we broke up, I was pretty heartbroken for a sixteen year old. Somehow, through all the adolescent drama and misconceptions, we worked through the bullshit to become good friends. I don’t want to imply that it was easy — it never is. But I knew that I wanted him in my life, especially as a friend.

When I left for South America in 2003, my feelings for him had resurfaced (for various reasons, that I won’t divulge here). During that year in Chile, he met someone. I remember speaking to him on the telephone, waiting, hoping for a clue that we were on the same page. Instead, he told me about her. I admit, I was extremely disappointed and jealous. Even after I returned from Chile, those feelings did not dissolve quickly. It took time. Eventually, I mended. Eventually, I saw how wonderful his new relationship was (and still is), how much sense it made.

Still, during the years prior to Santa Fe, I lost it every time we spoke on the phone. Somehow, he seemed to draw out all the honesty that I tried to keep buried. I always cried. I didn’t cry because I still had feelings for him, I cried because he knows me in a real way, a way that few people actually do.

I’ve saved his letters, pictures of us, poems he wrote me, the index card he painted with watercolors one afternoon. In my nostalgia, I will revel in that moment, on the camp basketball courts. I will always have a love for him.

not a bad first, eh?