first love

His name was Seth. He died in a car crash when we were both ten. We used to chase each other around the church parking lot between Sunday school and the regular service; and again afterward in the afternoon when the sun was beating down and the sidewalks were hot. I wore dresses sometimes, but we still chased each other: around and around that ugly old brown brick church. Sometimes, when you’re both running in circles, you cease to be the chase-ee and become the chaser. It’s fun!

He was riding in the back of a station wagon with his little family: his mother, and his younger brother and sister. He was the only one not wearing a seat belt. His small body flew out of the car like a rag-doll into a ditch many yards away. He was alive when they got him to the hospital. I don’t know, nor do I remember, all of the details. I was very young and I’m sure I wasn't told the entire story. I think he was in the hospital for a day or so. On Sunday morning, during the service, the telephone rang, piercing the preacher’s sermon. It rang and rang and rang. Ominous. Foreboding. The preacher's wife took what seemed like ages to walk the length of the sanctuary, down to the church office, to answer it. I remember the ice that filled my heart. She finally returned, with a haggard step, and stood at the edge of the steps. He was gone. I remember looking out the church window; it was early October and there were still blades of grass peaking from underneath the snow covered parking lot. I remember thinking he would never see them again. And I remember the ice that gripped my insides.

I always thought, after that, if he had not gone, that we might have grown up together and gotten married. Of course, one never can tell. Still, he remains my first love.

Photo credit: @flatbushnelson on Instagram.