Memoir|First Love

A Gift For My Younger Self

But still, what the hell were you thinking?

I understand you were deluded. You can’t be blamed for constructing the future out of movies and magazines. It was 1969. Things were very different then.

You had a picture in your head. In front of a crackling fire, reading great poetry to your eternal love. Soft classical piano music humming in the background. You didn’t know who he would be, only that he’d want to listen.

You were beguiled by romance at sixteen. There was never going to be a groping, pimpley adolescent with sloppy, mouth hungry kisses. Just Whitman, Frost and Byron. Maybe a little Hemingway.

In your future you’d be entwined, taking turns to share your deepest thoughts. Love and lilacs, death and passion.

He’d be devoted to you, literature, and art. In that order. He’d fold you into his strong broad chest and say;

“You are my everything, my life and my soul.”

I guess you believed in soul mates and perfect dreams back then? That’s cute.

Your first love When you found a boy at seventeen, you made exceptions. Now we call that ‘settling’ and ‘compromise’. He was never romantic, in the Byron sense, but simple things he did won you over.

Like riding his bike to your house in the rain, picking roses along the way, one hand on the bike and one hand grasping thorns.

He bought you an ice-cream and a Pepsi, and remembered to bring extra paper napkins. Your heart melted at his gallantry.

You knew from the start this was not the poetry boy, that dream vanished not long after the first fumbling kisses.

New Year’s Eve, 1969. You caught a train to the city, pushing through warm summer puddles on crowded streets. It was your first date but you held tightly to his arm because it felt so safe.

Did you have any idea what the movie was? Probably not.

You locked in each other’s arms the moment lights dimmed, and that was that. Everyone ‘pashed’, groped at the movies, but you fell for him. This was something different. Silently, in the dark.

The 9.30 train home made every stop, and he made your heart stop. He pulled you in close. The smell of Brut and his freshly laundered cotton shirt. I can still feel the crispness and see the blue when I remember that night.

And then you kissed him. Yes, almost that song by the Crystals. His eyes grew wide, surprised by your ambush. Sorry, but it was sweet.

I always remembered it, even after the divorce. Even now. This tall, blonde, shy boy was a keeper. Perfect husband material. You knew you were going to marry him.

You loved him for fifteen years. Until you didn’t. Until you grew up.

A sudden proposal You were both eighteen, sitting on nan’s couch, in her darkened room by the glow of the TV, and you had a brain-snap.

“You know how people who are in love get engaged, then get married?” He cleared his throat, “Y-e-e-e-e-s?”

Like he was scared of what you’d say next. Then you said, “I wish we could do that. Be together all the time.” And he said, “S-u-u-u-r-e.” But you never saw his face in the dark, you only heard the words.

Nan smiled first and then the surprise spread, like it was contagious, until everyone was laughing and hugging. Do you remember the blue-eyed boy’s reaction? Was he happy, jumping around like the rest of us in spontaneous joy?

All I remember is his silence.

Mum insisted you wait until you turned twenty. Dad always said you were stubborn, you married him on your twentieth birthday, May 5th. 1972. Not a day later.

And suddenly, my child, you were gone.

Too much, too long Passion and romance just sort of melted away after the wedding. I couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about. Blue-eyes was nervous and quieter than usual. It was ok. I thought it would get better.

I woke up on the first morning feeling nothing but the physical sensation of the boat’s gentle rocking, warm sunlight pouring through the windows.

I stared at his strong, bare shoulders and thought:

What the hell have I done?

Still, when he opened those bluest of blue eyes, I felt it. In my core this could never be made right, only carried silently, an invisible burden of error that would last for twenty years.

Yes, he was never fully there or fully gone. He went through the motions of what he was expected to be. Of what you and I had made him into.

You had loved the idea of eternal romance too much for too long, but that soon changed.

The world changed It sunk into disruption and fear, but our boy went willingly. Terrified, but believing he was doing service for his country. For the world.

Did you even understand the dangers of conscription in a time of war? The grown-ups did. Mum, dad, nan, his parents. I don’t think we could grasp the seriousness of the situation, even with all the carnage on the news every night.

It felt unreal when he got the notice, but two months after the wedding, his mother and I took him to the bus depot. Just as the bus pulled away, she dissolved into tears.

Did you hear her whisper? I did.

“He’ll never survive, he’s too soft.”

She was right, we were both so naïve. It wasn’t just the enemy we should have worried about. Change stole the essence of your blue-eyed boy. You noticed it on his first leave from infantry bootcamp.

The sweetness was gone, a dark soul welded in its place. He raged, he drank, he cursed the world to hell and beyond. They broke him. And I knew I could never put him back together again.

Inhale Somewhere near my fortieth birthday I graduated university. Do you know how much that changes a person? I had been numb, but now I was obsessed.

Three days a week I pushed through heavy glass doors of the fledgling university. The foyer’s green carpet gave off a dry, chemical smell that mixed with the fresh paint of the walls.

Massive concrete columns soared to the glass atrium, rising like the spirit of aspiration itself. It was addictive. Stronger than lilacs.

Close your eyes, kid. Inhale. Smells stay even when memory disappears.

Awake That is what growth, and excitement, and discovery feels like when it gets into your bones. Intellectual awakening is a potent force, as strong as love or parenthood. It too changes a person forever.

You couldn’t know it at sixteen, eighteen or twenty. You didn’t see that the one true person who could envelope you in the miracles of art and music, love and passion, was yourself.

But you get it now, yes?

The gift So dear young friend, you know the answers. Our story will be about change, uncertainty and growth. And how no-one owns the blame. That took me a long time to figure out.

Change and uncertainty is the only constant in life, and you just have to do the best you can in each situation. You tried, I am still trying.

And here’s my gift; I have forgiven you. Now it’s time to forgive myself.

This memoir was inspired by the super talented Sally Prag’s story about teenage love.