First Girlfriend

Stolen by Death

Farther away than away and longer Gone to Death now I miss her

I still think of her now and then, of Barbro with the oh, so striking red hair. She was my very first girlfriend (though not my first kiss — that was another Barbro, oddly enough, brown hair, wispier), dead now these many years.

When I found out, I found it very, very hard to believe and take.

Somewhere in my mid-fifties (I don’t remember the exact year), planning a summer trip back to Sweden for a visit, I decided to look her up while I was there, see how she was doing these days, that amazing Barbro with the striking red hair who grasped my hand at that sports event and then wouldn’t let go of it and who that evening let me get to second base in that warm, dark compartment on the south-bound train back to our hometown. For me, this was incredible, for I had never quite left the batting cage before, much less home plate.

This was serious hormone-induced bliss, like being cocooned in an ocean of molasses, rising and sinking with an unfillable drifting that discovered the warmest, softest skin between stockings and frilly panties (before the now ubiquitous hose, this). I had never heard of a feeling like this, much less suspected that one actually existed or that I, just like that, would sink into it, body and soul. It redefined life for me, this experience — paradigm-shift comes to mind, a word for once living up to its hype. Eye-opener is another good word.

To say that this encounter went to my head would be an understatement. I had significant trouble falling asleep that night, and waking up the next morning, she was the first thing I thought of.

Alas, nothing long-term came of this. I soon came to find out she already had a boyfriend, a real one, an older one, one with a wide and justified reputation for fighting (I never fought anyone in my entire life). Once I realized that my life hung in the balance were I to pursue her, I, wisely, backed off, slunk away and licked my wounds.

Yes, I wondered, nearly forty years on, how was she doing, this my very first girlfriend. For sure, I decided, I would definitely look her up when I got back to Sweden — next months. To lay some ground work I emailed my sister and asked if she could track Barbro down, address and phone. No luck, though. Not a trace, she said.

Hm, I thought long and hard. Then I remembered her best friend, Inger. I even remembered her last name (surprisingly). Could my sis see if Inger was findable? If so, Inger, in turn, would surely know Barbro’s whereabouts; if Inger still lived in town, that is.

As luck would have it, Inger was still around. My sister discovered where she worked and gave me her work phone number as well. I made a note of it and made sure to bring this vital info when I headed back for one of my rare (even rarer now) visits early that summer (I was definitely done visiting Sweden in the winter).

Once back home (staying with my sister and her husband in the very house my dad built for us so many years before), I called Inger’s job only to find out that she had quit, retired. Recently? Yes. Did they have her home phone? Yes, sure thing.

Next, I called Inger. She answered on the fourth or fifth ring. Land line. I could tell.

Yes, yes, of course she remembered me. How was I doing? What was I doing? Where did I live? All that. And yes, she was just fine, too.

What about Barbro, I asked. How is she doing these days?

A long, uneasy silence. “I don’t know how to say this,” she said. “But Barbro’s dead.”

“What?”

“Two years ago,” she said. “She died.”

I’m sure I asked how and from what and under what circumstances and so forth but I don’t really remember for my mind had stopped computing. There was something so terribly wrong with someone you had gone to second base with being dead. And your first girlfriend (of sorts) at that. And, really, I had really loved her.

Infatuation, puppy love, yes, but love nonetheless. Perhaps I was just a temporary puppy for her — she was so much more experienced than I was, but she changed the world for me, turned everything upside-down, threw that one particular door wide open, and now: dead?

Words like unfair, incredible, impossible, too-soon, how-could-it, why-on-earth, at-her-age, unbelievable, circled in the air above me like condors ready to swoop, but none really made it all the way, I was too stunned.

“You still there?” said Inger.

“Still here,” I said.

I don’t remember the circumstances. Perhaps it was lung cancer (she did smoke), some distant bell rings at that. But still.

Yes, she would have been in her mid-fifties as well, when she died, not an un-heard-of event at that age, but still.

When I was little, only animals and strangers died. Now that I was all grown up, friends died too.

That was the shocking news.

© Wolfstuff