Memories Of Sorrow

Memories Of Sorrow Somehow, it always seems that the most important memories are always hidden by some unknown force. I am almost certain to forget facial features or marking traits of someone special to me. If I try to remember, it is lost. Memories are not always an accurate recollection of the truth; sometimes they are not real at all. For whatever reason, people always seem to remember what they would like to believe the truth is. With all this in mind, I will share a personal recollection of my first romance. It was on a Friday during the winter months of my 8th grade year.

If I recall correctly, which I always do, her name was Nicole. Her name, Greek for Victory of the People, always embedded such awe and mystery into my mind. The angelic Nicole stepped into my life on a cold day, as I sat there in my school bus after another long day. I was sleepy, like always, because I had gone to bed late the night before. Then as unexpected as snow in Brownsville, I saw her.

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She was a vision, her golden hair streaming down to her neck. Her eyes sparkled like a thousand stars. She was tall and lusciously curvy. She was so curvy that it was a danger to all of heaven’s minions. I still have never been as anxious to meet any one as I was meeting her.

God, with his merciful divinity, had shined his light upon the earth and sprinkled the world with one true miracle, Nicole. What luck I had, she sat next to me! What was I going to do? I was always very uncertain with women. Sure they said they liked me, but I had never really had a girlfriend before. Due to some strange outwardly liar paradox, I remained quiet. How could I make a fool out of myself? As time passed, so did my fear.

I slowly began to get more and more comfortable with her vast beauty so close to me. As time passed I gained more confidence due to our assigned seating, I gradually worked my way up the ranks from Hi, to Hello, and ultimately to the benchmark: Hi, how was your weekend? Nicole and I soon became very good friends on the bus, but my greed asked for more; I needed to have unlimited access. I soon plotted a way to get her phone number. If all worked out I was going to be the happiest person in the entire world. My plan was simple: strike with a cheap and cheesy pick up line. All I had to do was wait for the appropriate moment to strike.

Almost like an axiom I saw the moment appear in front of me. It was now or never! I quickly blurted out, I lost my phone number, may I have yours? I still see the absurdity of that moment. Even now I laugh at myself and at how I could be so entirely childish in manner. At that moment the world had just stood still, I could have heard a cricket miles away. As I held my breath, I thought to myself: was she going to laugh at me, or was she going to give me her number? I didn’t know, and honestly, I wasn’t anxious to find out either.

After a moment of her staring blankly at me, she let out a giggle and a smile and said sure. And that was it, I had done it. I was the happiest boy on that school bus. That day had been a total success. I hurried home to transfer the numbers off of my hand and onto some paper. I was not going to lose her number! As I jotted the numbers down I was hit with a terrifying thought, when was I going to call! I had never had a girls number before, at least not one who I was interested in.

Was there an ethic to be followed? I let the weekend slide. Debating weather to call or not, I decided to wait for our Monday talk to ask. Monday arrived slower then expected. Time has a way of mocking a waiting person. When I ran up into the bus; I spotted her instantly.

The back of the bus glowed in the radiance o her tender smile. She had a way of making the plain and dull seem so full of life and energy. I quickly made my way towards the sweet smell of her tender skin. She, almost instinctively, moved aside and smiled; “How was your weekend?” I quickly made up an elaborate lie on how I had been busy all weekend. I considered my act a sure sign of heterodoxy, I had lied to my love.

I slowly worked my way up to the subject, when to call. How would I ask such a question without looking like a dork. Eventually I got enough nerve to blurt out an incoherent “When may I call you?” I was readily pleased to hear her response of “When ever possible.” That day I stood vigil over my phone, ready to call my chaste angel. The time ticked by, was it too soon or too long? I swallowed my fears and I brought my self to call. There was a booming ring, I could feel my pulse rising, another ring, I could barely breath, “Hello?” That was Her! My love had a voice of such wonderful tones.

With that voice she could sing out divine chords unheard of by mankind. “Hello?” “Hi is Nicole there?” I asked, well knowing it was whom I was talking to. “This is me, Joram, Is that you?” “Yes this is me.” I replied as I celebrated my success, I was talking to my princess! “Guess what, I just found out I’m going to move to Houston!” “WHAT!” I said lamely, thinking it was a cruel joke. “Seriously, my Father got a new job offer” My future was clear. A single moment, ending the sensations of life, the in breath, the out breath, the cessation of life.

The abyss so deep, the chasm so wide, there was nowhere to run, no place to hide. there was utter desolation in every moment, desperate thoughts only of despair, depression and I, the most intimate pair. No moments of reprieve, darkness in the sunshine, darkness in the light, darkness everywhere, nothing else in sight. I could feel my life crumble within my self. But alas, God works in mysterious ways.

That year was not my best, and she was not my first. Like all things in nature I understood, even love, lust, and celibacy are affected by the unexpected forces of half-life decay. I soon realized we were not going to succeed as any thing more then friend’s. As time passes so does my impression of Nicole’s face, voice, and charm. Time changes every thing but most of all it changes my memories of Nicole.

I can hardly remember her sweet charm, and know I will soon forget her. There are always things best left forgotten. Creative Writing.