First Loves

A friend asked me recently if I remembered my first love. I do, although the concept of “love” is something of a stretch. My first love’s name was Mike. I think the great romance occurred in first or second grade. He was chubby, had flaming red hair, and tons of freckles. I imagine we liked each other because we looked somewhat the same. Though I wasn’t a skinny mini, I wasn’t fat like he was, but I did have bright red, curly hair, and freckles -- so many freckles that they ran into each other creating fat blobs of the pigment on my nose and cheeks. I’m sure I hated them!

My mother, in her wisdom, confiscated and saved a note Mike and I passed between us: “Dear Judy. I love you. Dear Mike. I love you, too.” She presented the torn and faded scrap of paper to me years later, when I was probably twelve. I blushed with embarrassment and then tore it into shreds. She likely was not happy about that, but I needed to get rid of the evidence.

I have no clue where Mike is today. I don’t even recall his last name. I can envision him though: a huge, burly, truck driver with hairy arms, still with a mess of dry, sandy red hair, yellow teeth, a wad of tobacco tucked in his lip, and a cold beer clutched in his hand; or he is a thin, tall doctor, having shed his childhood pounds years ago, taking care of sick kids who are drawn to him because of his sweet smile and azure eyes; or he is an exhausted, retired, history teacher who likes nothing more than to walk through the thick woods to the creek beyond with his golden retriever to fish for trout and contemplate life’s choices; or he is, after thirty years still sitting behind a desk in a tiny office somewhere in the Midwest selling car insurance to folks who wander in by chance and are drawn to his rosy, ruddy cheeks, sleepy, blue eyes, and the mounds of fat that imbue comfort itself. Mike is probably like none of these folks, but it’s interesting, and a bit fun, to conjure such imaginings.

By the way, do you know where your first love is?