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We were high school sweethearts; first love or a relationship that sustained throughout and after high school. Both definitions worked for us. Things started about ten years ago when I came to the US with my mom.
I was ten years old in Korea but went back to nine in the US as we usually add up one year to our age back home. Although mom loved the idea of getting younger, I didn't like it at all. I dreamed of Brave New World when everybody cheered for my moving to America. It turned out, however, that my new town was anything but the paradise they imagined. It was a small country town where you can see cows and horses everywhere on the prairie.
My first impression of America was the smell of hay and cow dung. No skyscrapers, no construction sites, no traffic jams. The town was short of many things but we added a piece of diversity there; visible minority. Me and mom were the only Asians in town.
It felt a little awkward but was not a big deal. Since humans were scarce resource here, people loved people. Opposite of Korea where tons of human beings got jam-packed in a small land, leading to producing more misanthropists. On the contrary, it would be natural for you to be a humanist if you were born in a town where you could hardly meet another soul after wandering around for 30 minutes.
He was a boy next door and overexcited even before meeting me. On our moving day, he sat on the front stairs of his house waiting for us.
"Oh, man! It's a boy! Daddy, come out! It's a boy my age," he shouted when he finally found who was moving in.
Daddy and boy were the only words I could understand. His father came out.
Wow, a western guy with a big nose, I thought. His brown hair with a golden touch was combed back to show a broad forehead, and his ear tips were a little edged like an elf. The most impressive feature of him, though, was his eyes, so bright and transparent. I was amazed. How can it be possible for a human to have such eyes? Later, I knew those were called pale blue eyes.
His father walked towards me and showed his palm. While I stood still with a blank look, he and his father showed me how to do a high-five. I was hesitant but finally slapped his palm. His father smiled at me and went to mom to say hello. Looked like a movie star to a simple country boy like me who had seen white people only on screen.
The boy's name was Mark, and his father was Greyson. Mark sometimes called his father Grey. It was beyond my imagination to call my father by his first name. Honestly, though, I was envious of the friendly relationship. I used to address him as 'Sir', but later settled down in calling him 'Grey.' He begged me to call him just Grey, adding even 'please'. It was a magic word that I learned at school, so I couldn't say no.
Grey was so young that he could be Mark's big brother. He didn't expect to have a son at the age of 17 when he enjoyed life with his high school sweetheart. Since Mark's mother ran away before his first birthday, Grey raised Mark on his own while his friends wasted their youth with alcohol, drugs and wild sex.
