When I Was…

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When I was 4 years old I had my first ‘girlfriend’ of sorts; she was missing two front teeth and had hair the color of a raven’s feather. Our parents used to tease us that one day we’d get married and we’d both jeer and sneer at each other. But then came playtime and she’d make me her ‘tea-party’ guest and served me imaginary tea and cakes in empty plastic cups. We played everyday until her family moved away and I never saw her ever again. I missed her but my 4 year old mind didn’t allow me think about it. The next day I was playing like nothing ever happened, and this 4 year old girl would cease to exist to me.

When I was 11 years old, and all the girls in school were getting bumps on their chests and me and my friends would wonder what they looked like beneath those stupid shirts, I had my first real crush. She was in my class, and her name was… Dear God, I don’t remember. All I remember was she was (back then) the prettiest girl I ever saw, and I would think of me and her holding hands and say cheesy things like “I love you” until my cheeks would flush red and my eyes took on this glazed, dreamy look. In my childs mind I already saw me and her married and staying home doing… whatever it was married people do. Then one day I told her I liked her and she said “I don’t like you, you jerk!” and I went back and told my mother what she said. My mothed laughed (a little insultingly) and jus said, “Don’t worry dear, you’re only eleven.” I had no idea what she meant, and after she said that, I didn’t tell her that I felt this peculiar aching inside my heart… because to be honest, I didn’t understand it myself. But I would again.

When I was 15 years old I had my first real girlfriend. And I remember her name: Julia. She was in the same class as I was, and we’d been stealing glances at each other for more than a few weeks until surprisingly, she came to me and told me she liked me. I thought that was the amazing thing to ever happen in my life at the time. Julia was demure and quiet, and she was sweet with me. We’d sneak away on dates after school, always to the nearby mall where we’d have ice cream or talk about the latest pop songs and TV shows. I thought her so beautiful that I’d write her corny notes in class and ask her friends to pass it to her, and one day a teacher caught us passing notes and decided to make us read the notes out loud. It was humiliating, but afterwards both of us giggled and laughed it off like crazy. Six months into the relationship, she told me she loved me, and I told her I loved her, and we were both happy. I was happy that I was convinced that I would spend my life loving her. Nothing was impossible to my teenaged mind at the time.

But when I was 18 and we had dated for three years and I was still so much in love with her, on this one beautiful day where the sun was soft and the clouds were like cotton candy amongst the clearest blue skies, Julia came to see me just before she left for college to tell me she didn’t want to be together anymore. When I asked her why she refused to answer and instead told me that we should just be friends. Despite my protests, she left without looking back and it was only a few weeks later did I find out that she left to go to the same college with my ‘best friend’ of whom she’d be cheating on me with. So I felt my first real heartbreak, and It felt like drowning in a sea boiling with rage, where the light was bleak and there was no helping hand, where all I could hope for was a face that I knew for certain back then would never come back.

And then two years passed, and when I was 20 I met this girl in college who was smart and quirky and had the brightest eyes I’ve ever seen. Summoning the courage I never knew I had, I asked her out and she said yes. Her name was Damia and she was an arts major who wore scarves and hats to class. She picked me up in a yellow Volkswagen Beetle and we had our first date eating sate by a roadside. I was totally captivated and for the first time in a couple of years I felt alive again. Two weeks later I asked her to go steady with me by saying I had a huge crush on her and she said yes. I was ecstatic, and everyday I’d see her in college and every other weekend we’d go on picnics and hikes, and we’d visit museums and libraries.

But when I was 22 Damia and I graduated and we shifted to different places and started our own jobs. We tried hard to spend time together, but maybe not hard enough. We went on long periods without seeing each other and one day I woke up to find that I didn’t miss her, and we met and talked things over and we ended our romantic relationship there and then, on mutual grounds. We kept in touch, if only sporadically. One day I was reading the news and there, on the front page, was a photo of her. She had died in a horrific car accident en route to work, and without realizing it I shed tears that fell on the newspaper and smudged the ink.

I dated on and off for a few years, then when I was 25 I met this lady who was a friend of a friend from work, and she took my breath away. Her name was Farah and there was something about her that was so irresistible. After meeting her in the company of our mutual friend a few times I could no longer deny I liked her and yes, I asked for her number and we got in touch on the phone a few times and one day I asked her out. We had dinner at a nice restaurant and took a stroll in the city and she linked her arms around mine. I looked into her eyes and I thought to myself: she could be the one. After a few months we became a steady couple and after another few months I told her I was in love with her and she told me she felt the same way too, and I remember taking her hand and kissing her fingers and she smiled.

And then one lovely day when I was 27, Farah and I were married in a simple but happy ceremony, with all our closest friends and family present and they wished us well, and that we’d have a long and happy life together. Farah looked gorgeous in her wedding dress, and I would have this lasting image of her holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand and smiling at me as she stood on the altar. I remember the joyful faces of everyone in the crowd, and I knew then that the world was mine and that my life was now complete because I had her as my wife.

When I was 29 our marriage celebrated its second anniversary and we gave each other the most wonderful gift of all when we our first daughter was born. We named her Ilya and she was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on. I wanted to spend every waking moment looking at her and cuddling her and making sure she would grow up to be a loving child, a smart child, a child we could be proud of. Farah and I would spend hours contemplating our childs future, and our own future.

But when Ilya was 10 years old and I was 39, Farah and I started to constantly fight. We would point out each others shortcomings and we would argue hard throughout the night and Ilya would watch us silently, uncomprehending. Farah would blame me for being uncaring or for not understanding, and I’d blame her for the same things. One day it got so bad Ilya started to cry out of fear and that was when we realized we were hurting each other and hurting our daughter more. From that day on, we tried harder to be who we used to be, loving and caring and full of support for each other.

When I was 42 Farah and I drew each others’ last straws and after a bitter discussion we agreed to divorce each other. Sometimes, like some people say, things just don’t work out no matter how we try. Honestly, when I look back, I can never really pin point what really happened between Farah and I. One day, it seemed, everything just dissolved, like a spoonful of sugar you absently stir into a cup of tea. We parted in silence, with Ilya the only bridge between us. There were times when I questioned the decision to separate, but I never once said a word. I consoled myself by saying it was better this way. Maybe all that was wrong with us was that we needed a break from each other.

I focused on work until my retirement, and when I was 56 my daughter Ilya married her long time boyfriend, whom she’d know since her college days. On her wedding day I noted how beautiful my daughter had grown to be, how alike her mother she was in both physical looks and mannerisms. I was so touched I cried, for she was my only daughter and now I had to let her go to be under the care of someone else. Farah and I had become friends by now and I don’t know; perhaps it was the romance in the air at the wedding, or perhaps it was something deeper than that, but we hit if off once again and we started to date. Maybe you might scoff at the idea of two middle aged people dating, but honestly, it was the most natural thing in the world.

And so it was when I was 57, Farah and I remarried in a quiet ceremony, with only our daughter and her husband along with their little baby, my grandson, to celebrate with us. Farah and I moved in back together, and our lives resumed the same way it had before our divorce; all the pieces just fit back together, as if there had never been years apart for us at all. And it was somehow better. Perhaps aged has mellowed us down but there was a whole lot more love and caring this time around. It was as if we’ve accepted our roles in this life, and finally, we can stop chasing the world and instead kick back and watch the sun go down on our own time.

We would live to be happy for years ahead, until, when I was 67, Farah passed away peacefully in her sleep and I lost the love of my life, of whom I’ve shared so much with and spent half a lifetime together with. Oh how I had wept that morning when I woke up and realized she was there but no longer ‘there’. Oh how you could almost hear my heart break when I knew for certain that I would never again see her smile when she woke up beside me, and how I could never again talk to this woman who was my soul-mate, my best friend, my life-companion. The years that passed after Farah went away all seemed to move too fast; Ilya insisted that I stay with her, and my son-in-law was very helpful and accommodating to me. I saw my grandchildren increase, and I watched as my daughter handled her family like only a loving wife and mother could. I see Farah in her, and that soothed my heart, knowing that Farah and I had raised her well, raised her good, and that now Ilya was her own woman with her own life to take care of.

So four years ago when I was 70, I pooled all my life savings and bought a small house away from the city, and there I said goodbye to my daughter and son-in-law and my grandchildren, and she had wept and said she’d visit often, and I had told her how it was okay if she couldn’t constantly be there. I didn’t want to burden my daughter. I was just an old man who was content. So I moved into my little house, and I kept a cat as a companion. I call him Mr. Buggles because I overfeed him and he waddles to his dish.

And here I am today, 74 years of age, living comfortably in my little house away from the city with my tubby cat as a friend. My daughter visited often, and it would always delight me to see my grandkids. I think they are one of the reasons that I’ve kept on going with life. I jog 20 minutes everyday, eat good meals and not a minute doesn’t go by that I don’t say a prayer for my late wife’s soul, and for the happiness of all the people I love and care for.

When I look back at these long years that have been my life, I guess I can finally say that I’ve reached a point where I can look back and smile at all the relationships I’ve been through. Not just at the happy bits, but for the sad bits too. Love has changed my life in more ways than one; love has made me strong and then made me weak, but it came back and made me stronger again. I guess, you could say, that if you live your life with love, then you’ll be alright until the day you die.

And so I say to you; love your life, and love the people who are part of it. Because that is what you take with you when it all comes to an end; the love you had for the people in your life, and the love they had in return for you. It’s enough to make the your twilight years seem not so bad at all.