The Love Letter [pencilprize14]

o n e

            “A youth with his first cigar makes himself sick. A youth with his first girl makes everybody sick.” –Mary Wilson

            …I’ve loved you since we first met, in elementary school, when you were still this adorable, playful kid that always seemed to laugh, who liked to bring smiles and joy to others. I remember every touch, every whisper, every little snippet of conversation that seemed to follow me, haunting my actions, changing my perspectives. Your fleeting glances as they swept past me to land on someone else, your bright gray eyes as they twinkled at another girl. It’s hard to forget someone like you, but not impossible. But I suppose it’s all for the best, because after you read this letter, you might even be appalled by all I have to say to you, and besides, I plan to disappear for awhile, becoming no more than a faint memory of someone who loved you, a foolish, reckless crush that I could not abstain, nor wanted to. This is why I’ve sent this to you. It’s something to remember me by, a faceless girl that holds special regard in her heart for you, because I’m truly nothing special…”

I suppose that now I think about it, this whole story, this happening, would have never occurred in the first place if I hadn’t sent that love letter. Yes, in fact, I would pin everything down onto that love letter, which honestly cost me more trouble than it all was worth. But on the other hand, if I hadn’t sent that love letter, then he would have never taken notice of me, although he claims that the fact that he happened to be conveniently enrolled in the same college I was attending was completely, one hundred percent coincidental. I still don’t believe him to this day. That love letter, however, was only the start of my troubles.

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            Dinners in the Collins household were always hectic. My mother would be whisking around the kitchen, ladling whatever fragrant dish she had created that night into their respective platters, blonde hair flying as she lectured my sister and I for not setting the table properly. My father, on the other hand, was the more laid back parent, sitting on the old, worn leather couch, watching the semantics with an air of dignified amusement. Typically, I wouldn’t have put up with this kind of behavior, but since it was my last night in the house, on a school day, I viewed every action somewhat nostalgically, remembering all the small details to file away and analyze once I moved out for college.

Things like the way my father always loosened his tie and took off his coat to hang in our closet before dinner, how my mother had a nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her ear constantly, how my little sister loved to tug on my clothes to gather my attention.

 I would miss them, there was no doubt about that, but at the same time, there was a part of me that yearned to be free, that itched and scratched from the inside out, begging for release. Tomorrow was graduation, the promise of new beginnings, a new start, a clean slate, far, far away from everything I’d ever known, including him. I didn’t know whether to think if that was a blessing or a curse.

For the first time in forever, I would be independent, a mature woman who had her own duty to the world, a fully-fledged chick leaving the nest to take the first leap, and to persevere in order to fly. As I truly opened my eyes to the world around me, I appreciated everything my parents had done for me, what they had sacrificed in order to take me this far. The weight of my responsibility rested on my own shoulders now, and there was no one else to ease my burden except me, myself, and I.

“Pass the salad, would you, dear?” my mother inquired to me.

“Of course,” I lifted the said bowl to her, narrowly missing my sister’s forkful of spaghetti headed towards my arm.