Young Love

At Six Years Of Age

Once in a while, I remember. Sometimes, it just pops into my head. Like any other thought. But it's not any other thought. When I think of it, my breathing hitches, and my heart starts beating like mad inside my chest. I don't know why. It's not like it had any importance. After all, I was only six. And he was twelve. Still, he was my first love...

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My first day in school. REAL school! "You're in the big school now! Like a big girl! You're no longer just a little toddler like you used to be-", I was told many times from my aunties, grandparents, great-grandparents and even my dear old great-great-grandmother mentioned it once or twice. They always seemed to have a hanky in their grip now when they were near me. If they talked to me, they started tearing up, if they talked about me, they blew their noses like elephants, and if they even looked at me, they had to wipe a tear from the corners of their eyes. I never understood why they needed to cry. I'm the one that was supposed to be weeping and bawling and hiding behind my momma's legs. I was the one that's life was just about to change, who from now on will have to learn algebra and the abcs and recite poems. I was going to have to get up each morning at seven and trot down the road, alone, with a ten kilo heavy schoolbag on my back, until I reached that horrid, dark place with musty walls and cracked pavement, then step into the lighted main hall, where your every word echoes off the walls and you can't even see the ceiling, it's so high. Then I'm going to have to walk round and round in the maze of corridors to search for my class, where a big, fat, warty lady with a deep, raspy voice that sends shivers down your spine will greet me, show me to my seat, and therewith sentence me to my doom beside a red-headed freckled, spectacled little boy who knows the answer to every question that's asked. At lunch, I'll be the one that has to chew cardboard meat and swallow slimy, green orange juice. I'll have to go through all of this, yet I never shed a tear. THEY were the ones weeping like little children! I guess I didn't have to cry: they cried instead of the whole child population of England, by the rate of used tissues and red eyes! But this isn't about my aunties' and grandparents' tears, this is about ME! Which seems forgotten sometimes, as to be seen above... But I assure you! This story is about Lilly Smith (me), and I guess I should start telling it, now...

On the first day of school, after having withstood at least a dozen sloppy kisses, two dozen bear hugs and three dozen (soaked) hankies being waved at me from the doorstep, as all my family members had been invited to "send the big girl away to school (ah! how fast they grow up! I remember my first day in the big school... ((seriously, who cares?!)) )", I was finally free!! Not that I was too enthusiastic about it, I was about to walk into my doom! As I trudged up the hill and past the old, rusty bench, past the weeping willow that I used to climb when I was little... Well, little-er..., over the bridge under which a tiny spring of clear water flowed and onto the cobbled main road that lead into the valley with my school, I looked up to the clear blue sky, listened to the birds chirping their early-morning melody and thought about how easy it was for them. They could just flutter from branch to branch without a single worry on their minds, soar across the blue sky, into the rising sun, a ball of orange light on the horizon... I wished I was a bird, then I wouldn't have to worry about weeping women and a dark cave of misery awaiting down the road... I looked down at my feet. My strapped sandals were a little small and my toes were curled up against the end. I jumped over every crack in the road, even though it was agonizingly painful for my toes. Still, I needed my luck. The cool September air pricked my skin and it made me shiver. I had goosebumps on my leg, exposed to the wind under my jean skirt, but I wasn't sure if it was the cold or the nerves. I was getting nearer, and the sinister building loomed higher, blocking the warming sun and covering me with its shadow. I looked up to the tallest windows, from which a fraction of light escaped, reminding me that there was still life inside this prison, however unlikely it may seem. The height of the building made me feel queasy, so I did better to look back down at my sandals, which were becoming a boring sight.