You nipped my lip the first time. No skin broken open, but hearts were. Baseball caps and coffee breaths sent flying and ragged with possibility. Some mornings I still wish we had never left the sunroom. Or the alley. I miss the burns our walls gave us when two skinny kids pressed against them and into each other. You were my first great love.

Would I know passion so well without you?

You were my friend first. Though we both wanted more. And when more didn’t happen immediately, I assumed it never would. But you stayed or, at least, came back when I called. We never put up fences, so when we found ourselves on the other side it was better for being connected. But now, both fields have gone to seed. You were someone I could lean on who still made me feel like I stood on my own two feet.

Would I recognize support if it wasn’t for you?

We met just over the fence from my parents’ house. Our best friends fell for each other, so it seemed possible for us too. You came over the fence a year and a half later and met my parents. And held my nephew. You were late, but you wore real shoes. Charlie loved you. I did too. I loved that you saw a future with me--a house with a tree we planted and a family we made. That image will hang in the walls of my memory, reminding me I’m someone to see a future with.

Would I be even more stuck without you?

There were others in between. Their losses make me pause like trying to remember the beginning of a song as the melody plays on. But it is our anniversaries which take my day. At your graves, I have made my waiting rooms.
For too long, I have listened for a pulse. Too often, I have mistaken my heart beating for yours returning. Too quickly, I have seen our memories as signs of an impending resurrection. But you, too, have buried me.

I hope only that--should you visit my graveside--you think kindly of me too.