and my heart lurched
This morning I went to retrieve a message on Facebook. I opened it, and my heart lurched.
There was another boy. Not that kind of boy, not the boy I sat drooling over and putting stickers on my flute case for - just a boy with whom I felt a certain kindred spirit. He wore his hair in a mohawk before it was metro, had safety pins in all his clothes, and employed buckles, chains, and even staples in creating his personal couture. He wasn't the best student. Or the worst. He and his siblings blowdried their lawn once when they got sick of winter. They had a milkvan they used as a playhouse in the back alley - his poor little sister lost many a Barbie to the abyss of the milkvan, where they would be altered using sharp tools and heat (think Sid's toys in Toy Story.) This boy and me, we spent hours on the phone. We passed a lot of letters. We hung out in the milk van, talking. He introduced me to the music of The Dead Milkmen and SNFU. He had a crush on me, but I was too goody goody for a boyfriend. Especially one who wore saftey pins in his ears. And so he dated other girls, which made me sad because they cut into ~my~ time with him (and because they usually hurt him), but he was always my friend, one who never once turned his back on me.
Then he moved away, and my heart broke. I didn't realize exactly how much his friendship meant to me until he was gone. Some 21 years ago now, he packed up with his family and moved away. Back then in the days before email and long distance plans it may as well have been New Zealand. Where he went was practically a foreign land: Fort McMurray. The day he left, he came to my house to say goodbye. I was embarrassed my Mom made us tunafish sandwiches, especially when he asked me for a kiss goodbye. He tasted like onions.
I wish I'd known back then that it was OK to tell your friends you love them, too. For the record, E, I love you.
There was another boy. Not that kind of boy, not the boy I sat drooling over and putting stickers on my flute case for - just a boy with whom I felt a certain kindred spirit. He wore his hair in a mohawk before it was metro, had safety pins in all his clothes, and employed buckles, chains, and even staples in creating his personal couture. He wasn't the best student. Or the worst. He and his siblings blowdried their lawn once when they got sick of winter. They had a milkvan they used as a playhouse in the back alley - his poor little sister lost many a Barbie to the abyss of the milkvan, where they would be altered using sharp tools and heat (think Sid's toys in Toy Story.) This boy and me, we spent hours on the phone. We passed a lot of letters. We hung out in the milk van, talking. He introduced me to the music of The Dead Milkmen and SNFU. He had a crush on me, but I was too goody goody for a boyfriend. Especially one who wore saftey pins in his ears. And so he dated other girls, which made me sad because they cut into ~my~ time with him (and because they usually hurt him), but he was always my friend, one who never once turned his back on me.
Then he moved away, and my heart broke. I didn't realize exactly how much his friendship meant to me until he was gone. Some 21 years ago now, he packed up with his family and moved away. Back then in the days before email and long distance plans it may as well have been New Zealand. Where he went was practically a foreign land: Fort McMurray. The day he left, he came to my house to say goodbye. I was embarrassed my Mom made us tunafish sandwiches, especially when he asked me for a kiss goodbye. He tasted like onions.
I wish I'd known back then that it was OK to tell your friends you love them, too. For the record, E, I love you.
Comments
Glad you found your old friend!
Marital status (include brief descrition of spouse where applicable)?
Name, ages, genders of children and pets?
Current and past employers?
Hobbies and interests?
Once I have that basic vital information, I'm done. If I want to know where you travelled or went to college, if I care what colour you dyed your hair or how much your husband makes, I'll ask. A precis...