With a simple click of the mouse, the photo flashed before my eyes. As I took in the sight, a host of memories burst to the surface. Though they had never been forgotten, they had been buried under a 30-year inventory. Suddenly they were back in high definition. Not just the actions and events, but the very feelings of a poignant three-month span of my life. For several minutes I stared and reminisced.
In the pictures I had viewed before this one, I hadn’t quite recognized her. I questioned whether it was her or someone else. They were family pictures. Maybe the person in the pictures was a relative. Of course I knew she didn’t have a sister, but it could have been someone else – maybe a sister-in-law. After all, I had never seen the square glasses and the waist-long hair. Then I clicked on this picture. There was no mistaking. It was her.
How old was the picture? She didn’t look much older than the 19 year old I once knew so well. She wore a long formal evening gown which reached the floor. The warm smile had not changed. There was the trademark twinkle in her eye. Her hair was fixed like I remembered, about the same length and color. Either the picture was many years old, or mother time had been very kind to this woman.
When she graced my life, I was a young 21 year old, fresh off a 2-year mission. She came along at a trying time in my life. A too-close encounter with a guard rail on a motorcycle left me with a broken femur and recovering from surgery. For two months I hobbled around on crutches, unable to work. I was unable to do much of anything. It was under these circumstances that we met. When we got to know each other, she teased that she took pity and befriended me. It may have been true initially, but as our relationship matured, pity was not a factor. We were crazy about each other.
It started with a simple first date. It was followed by another, and another. Just like that, we were seeing each other every day. When I wasn’t with her, I was wishing that I was. When we attended church together, I could feel eyes in the congregation following us. She was an attractive girl, a trophy. I was proud to have her at my side.
On week days she attended cosmetology school. On occasion I met her during her lunch hour. On such occasions we were more likely to have ice cream rather than lunch. I had no job. I was broke. We went on drives in my ‘57 Thunderbird. Riding my motorcycle with her arms wrapped tightly around me from behind was like a dream. We spent evenings together. When evenings grew late and it was time to part, it was all I could do to pull myself away from her.
This was a new experience for me. I had never had a girlfriend. The few kisses I previously shared with other girls were nothing compared to what she offered. Kissing her was like a 4th of July extravaganza, like a trip to Mars and back at the speed of light, like nothing I had ever experienced with my eyes closed.
Mouse in hand, I perused the remainder of her Facebook profile. There were additional pictures. I visually got acquainted with her husband and sons. A smile creased my face. She seemed happy. Her husband was a good man. I was grateful that she was in good hands.
In the pictures I had viewed before this one, I hadn’t quite recognized her. I questioned whether it was her or someone else. They were family pictures. Maybe the person in the pictures was a relative. Of course I knew she didn’t have a sister, but it could have been someone else – maybe a sister-in-law. After all, I had never seen the square glasses and the waist-long hair. Then I clicked on this picture. There was no mistaking. It was her.
How old was the picture? She didn’t look much older than the 19 year old I once knew so well. She wore a long formal evening gown which reached the floor. The warm smile had not changed. There was the trademark twinkle in her eye. Her hair was fixed like I remembered, about the same length and color. Either the picture was many years old, or mother time had been very kind to this woman.
When she graced my life, I was a young 21 year old, fresh off a 2-year mission. She came along at a trying time in my life. A too-close encounter with a guard rail on a motorcycle left me with a broken femur and recovering from surgery. For two months I hobbled around on crutches, unable to work. I was unable to do much of anything. It was under these circumstances that we met. When we got to know each other, she teased that she took pity and befriended me. It may have been true initially, but as our relationship matured, pity was not a factor. We were crazy about each other.
It started with a simple first date. It was followed by another, and another. Just like that, we were seeing each other every day. When I wasn’t with her, I was wishing that I was. When we attended church together, I could feel eyes in the congregation following us. She was an attractive girl, a trophy. I was proud to have her at my side.
On week days she attended cosmetology school. On occasion I met her during her lunch hour. On such occasions we were more likely to have ice cream rather than lunch. I had no job. I was broke. We went on drives in my ‘57 Thunderbird. Riding my motorcycle with her arms wrapped tightly around me from behind was like a dream. We spent evenings together. When evenings grew late and it was time to part, it was all I could do to pull myself away from her.
This was a new experience for me. I had never had a girlfriend. The few kisses I previously shared with other girls were nothing compared to what she offered. Kissing her was like a 4th of July extravaganza, like a trip to Mars and back at the speed of light, like nothing I had ever experienced with my eyes closed.
Mouse in hand, I perused the remainder of her Facebook profile. There were additional pictures. I visually got acquainted with her husband and sons. A smile creased my face. She seemed happy. Her husband was a good man. I was grateful that she was in good hands.
