Chip

Today's his birthday, high school romance that

was long enough (with feelings strong enough)
that he's remembered out of not that many more
(late bloomer that I was). Date of his birth the
same as Grandpa's, which endeared him at the time (despite his age) to Mama. Two or three years older, bit of a coup to have him like me and I learned a thing or two, no question. Ponytail and musical, fixing cars, photography. One nickname (Chip), two middle names (G.K.), three Roman numerals that made his dad a Jr. or a 2nd (somewhere in the Middle East). His mother not exactly well, if I recall, her cat named Dammit
(which was to sheltered child both cool and somewhat shocking).
What set Chip apart, perhaps, was that he saw potential
where the others mostly saw another skinny girl in band.
Holding hands that summer in his Austin-Healy he
glanced over and then past, to something better. Jaguar, red,
in car lot priced to sell, needed lots of work, but ran,
and when you have a chance to buy a Jag, that's quite
enough. Unrelated to our break-up not far down
the road (in weeks, not miles), it makes a better story
if you think he gave me up because he found his
dream, no longer having time or inclination to
waste time with silly girl, but that would be untrue, unkind.
I gave him up because of fear. Not of his actions or his words,
but his affect on me, the wildness I could sense was
coiled, lurking like that Jaguar waiting to spring off the hood.
Looking back across the forty years it's been, I know the
choice was good and right and best. But still I wonder if he
ever thinks of Fluff (I curled my hair one day and earned the name).
I hope that way back when, deep down, he understood.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Think back to high school. You were so young and unformed, so incomplete! But good memories, aren't they? You never forget the music, the names, those first fumblings at romance.