Feeling: Wistful
Listening to: Some really liberal radio talk show... how did I get this station, anyway?
Reading/Watching: *Him*- the one, the original. The only, so far.

This is funny. I'm an Elephant. (I used to babysit for a toddler who called them "ebedots.")

Speaking of never forgetting, today someone in the office was listening to a song from Fiddler on the Roof in the cubicle next to me. It brought back floods of memories.

Oh, I forgot, most of you people don't know. This was a few months B.D. (Before Diaryland), when I was Yente the Matchmaker in Fiddler, and Chris was Motel the Tailor and I was so madly infatuated with him I couldn't see straight. I don't know whether I mentioned the play much, since the journal started the day before I graduated (and my 18th birthday), and the show was over in January.

But anyway. Listening to that teensy snippet of "Tradition" on the other guy's computer, suddenly I went glassy-eyed, remembering how Chris used to lace his fingers with mine backstage, waiting for the lights to go up, and whisper things to make me laugh. We'd do the geeky cross-sway-step across the stage and sing the opening number, palm to palm with the other dancers, but unlike everyone else we shared silly-doe-eyes between phrases.

It was so much fun, loving him. He'd creep up behind me behind the big back curtain and clap his hands on my shoulders so I'd jump, then whisper "I love you" and run away.

I remember he looked so cute with that little fake beard. I remember he had the most beautiful eyes- rimmed with dark blue, then fading into little flames of green around the pupils. I remember he danced like such a geek, tripped over his own feet, had a voice that still occasionally cracked, sang bass in the choir, and would meet me in the hallways and start singing his trombone parts from band. And I loved every dorky little bit of it. He would sit bent over the piano, making things up as he went, his long skinny fingers never lifting from the keys, always sliding gently, and when I could I'd sit with my head against the side, listening to it resonate with my eyes closed.

I remembered all of this in the space of a second or two, a sad little goofy grin on my face, missing him out of the blue, when I hadn't given him a thought in months. Last time I saw him was spring break, though we still talk online occasionally (he's rarely on).

Bri sounded so surprised once when I said I still love Chris. "But... he's your ex-boyfriend," she said. "I can't stand any of my exes."

Maybe we're built differently, she and I. How does she turn off all the good opinions of them, once a few bad ones come along? I did once, and always will, love him. No matter how things ended, no matter that I used to cry because I was so certain he didn't care about me, that I was just convenient to keep around. No matter that the hand-holding was where it ended, that he was afraid to kiss me, that in the end, despite his intelligence and maturity he was still very, very young for me, in a gap much bigger than the simple year between our ages. He wasn't ready for me. Nobody ever is. But I'll still love him.

Especially now that I've had time to let fears and insecurities mellow where he's concerned, it makes me realize that once you've loved someone, really loved, not just as a hobby or a habit, you never stop. You might hate them briefly (like Charlie Brown), but that's just the flip side of the same coin. And eventually you find yourself remembering them (even CB) and wishing them well, no matter what. You hope they're happy. You hope they become the person they want to be. You hope they find that one special someone, even if it wasn't you. Real love, whether it's mad and passionate or just still and gentle, never dies. It just evolves.

So I'm sitting here, missing him. Thinking of how his hair just touched the back of his neck, how the top was thick brown waves that he hated because he had to grow it out for the play. Thinking how his smile was so big and unguarded. Thinking how he loved me as much as he could, and never kept it a secret- what was there, he displayed freely. And the only fault I could find in him was that it wasn't enough to equal me.

That was all. I wanted to hug him, rest my chin in the crook of his bony shoulder, let him hold me and sway slightly, as if we're dancing. He used to do that. I miss it. Wherever he is, I hope he's making someone as happy as he made me for a while. I hope he's still grinning and making stupid jokes, I hope he's still playing his trombone and singing Jars of Clay and messing with pianos and refusing to write any of his compositions down. I hope sometimes he remembers me, and misses playing with my hair. Misses when I'd sing whatever he asked me to- look him in the eyes and sing just for him. I hope he misses me when he hears Fiddler songs, too.

/mushy stuff.

Comments? 0 so far...
Not a Diaryland member? Sign the Guestbook.