When I was thirteen, I fell in love with a girl who sat behind me in school. She was in the choir, she played baseball, she was absolutely adorable.
She was also rehearsing for "My Fair Lady", a joint project between several schools. (Now, I can't sing now and I couldn't sing then, but I went to the auditions -- because it involved walking across town after school in the company of this young lady. And wouldn't you know -- I got a part in the fucking chorus.)
I got to hold hands. I got to kiss her. I got to know her family. We went skating (hand-holding actually sanctioned by society) and played catch in the park. We climbed trees together and smoked cigarettes in a cave near the river. She loved wearing dresses, even though she was a bit of a girl-jock. She had four brothers, one of whom wound up on the same Little League team as me. We became great friends, the brother and I. And I guess that's when the bloom fell off the rose. Her name is Diane and I met her again, several years ago, when her aunt turned 90. (Her aunt and my mother were friends.)
Why is this important?
It's not. I'm just typing out loud.
Life is kids and old folks. Love and death.
And tonight, Diane.
3 months ago