His name was Josh. We met the summer I was fifteen at Church Camp *rolls eyes*.
My family was lodged there (we had our own cabin, and the distance was considerable);
his family commuted there each night for church.
The ten days of camp were blissful: he wrote me poems and drew me pictures of roses and griffins;
at nights after the service, we'd slip away to the playground and kiss on the swings;
days he could convince his parents to come early we'd wander the grounds holding hands,
or sit at the lunch stand playing cards and laughing.
I remember that he was proud of me;
that he took the time out of his day to write these amazing long letters to
me even though we'd be spending the evening together.
When we talked, we were transfixed with each other...
a fascination that lead to conversations with the depth and strength to reorganize my perceptions.
My family traveled back home. EVERY DAY he wrote me letters... and I mean pages and pages long.
I wrote back as much as I could, with as much feeling and depth as our conversations held.
Sometimes our parents would grant us the treat of talking over the phone,
and I was able to visit him three times:
Once to watch him play in the Homecoming game,
at a weight-lifting meet when one happened to be half the distance between our homes,
and at Christmas. We wrote for a year and a half, every day.
At the end of this time, his parents -- who were militaristically strict –
decided he was spending too much time writing letters and pining,
and demanded we stop talking to each other altogether.
I called his house imploring his parents, to no avail… I couldn’t phone Josh,
and if I wrote him, they would fish the letters from the mail and destroy them.
(I got one letter from Josh (the last I ever received) telling me this, explaining that every time I wrote, HE was punished).
So it ended. Broke. My. Heart.
I ended up taking a week off of school because I was such a slobbering mess… I didn’t eat, I didn’t even get out of bed… I remember being fetal sobbing, sobbing, thinking that my stomach was going to cave in from the pain. Later, I marveled that emotional pain could actually be physical.
My first love; while certainly not the strongest… I’m still looking for him. I’ve gone to Classmates.com a few times browsing through his high school’s listing… done a search on his name for a phone number or e-mail address… but no matches yet. The last news about Josh that I could scrounge up is that he joined the army directly after high school, and that he was a mess after we divided.
Hmmm. *long indulgent sigh*
Thanks, Maree … I haven’t relived that in awhile.
[This message has been edited by Elizabeth Cor (edited 05-15-2001).]