First Love

first love

Do you remember your first love?

Mine is a wonderful story about a little boy and a little girl, who once met at a winter resort.

I was four and he was seven.

At the time of our first encounter, he was playing chess with his mother on a small table in the hotel lobby, where I happened to be present. I walked to the table with the impertinence of a four-year auld. Since I was not very tall, I placed my nose carefully on the edge of the table with the huge chess set and started inspecting it in a very concerned manner. With the insolence of youth, I stood there silently, without movement, obviously immersed in observation, but without interrupting the players. At some point, I broke my numbness and went closer to the mother, caught her by the shoulder and pulled her towards me, in order to whisper in her ear:

“Take his Castle with the Queen!”

The woman, whose name I have forgotten, was powerfully distracted. She wanted to know my name. This is how I got presented to who was to become my first love.

Next thing I remember is walking hand in hand in the forest and seeing a doe.

I was four and he was seven, he had some Russian lineage…for he taught me to sing a song in Russian…I still remember how it goes:

“Let there always be the sun,
Let there always be the sky,
Let there always be Mommy,
Let there always be me!”

I was so impressed by the song, that I used the toilet paper in the hotel to write a detailed letter to my mom, which ended with the song in question.

This basically is the story of my first love. I remember nothing else but holding his hand in the forest. He was a little bit higher than me.

I wonder what became of him. Where have the winds of life taken him? Does he still remember that little girl, who used to wear her hair short, although she dreamed to have long hair?  The girl whose favorite possession was a skirt decorated with butterflies, which flew all around when she turned. The little girl, who once washed her teeth 30 times, for all the mornings she had skipped on this activity. The one who could write letters in large, printed, deformed letters, who managed to take Castles with a Queen at the delicate age of four… does he still remember this warm touch, and this company, and this harmony that connected us. Maybe he is now a professor in a Russian university; maybe he is married with kids, maybe he has felt as forlorn as me in times, maybe he has forgotten all about this story – facts are I vaguely remember his touch, but he touched me gently.

Author: LadyF

I know that I can speak about writing until I annoy even the most patient person. It obviously is more than a passion to me. Dean Kansky said: "You know, the Greeks didn't write obituaries. They only asked one thing after a man died: "Did he have passion?"

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