Dear Sylas,
In February of 2010, I was not yet in love. It would get there, but for the time being, I simply had a crush on a girl. These are foreign terms to you for now. “Girl” is merely the difference between Mommy and Daddy, between nipples that provide milk, and the useless ones that don’t. But here’s the story anyway, because there’s one of the life lessons somewhere in there.
I simply wanted to spend more time with her. You will become familiar with this feeling. You might become familiar with the opposite, too, since you are constantly showered with the affection of parents, uncles, aunts, grandparents, friends of all of the above, and might one day want time to yourself. Privacy. These things happen.
After a long time of privacy, I felt like the only thing I didn’t want to do on this particular February evening was take my leave of this girl. So, I lingered. We handed out music by a fountain. We hiked into the woods of California until we reached rocky waves. We pulled over on the side of the road to watch the sun set. We went to the beach and lit a makeshift fire, then ran into the ocean. I put my hand on her back. (These things happen to a life. Sometimes, all in one day, almost all at once, this life is big). I told her about one of my favorite movies. She said this: “I cannot kiss you.” As of now, you do not understand that this thought could exist in someone’s head. Everyone feels the need to kiss you, even if they do not act upon it. “I might become emotionally involved.”
An interjection. Earlier this week, during your first official trip anywhere, you were in Mexico with the rest of the family. You will not remember this, no matter how many videos we record on our various iPhones. Your mom was playing with you, as she can almost always be found doing. Farting noises and lots of motion. You’re beginning to giggle. There will come a time when giggling will be so common, you’ll forget that you once had to learn it. Everyone forgets they once had to learn to giggle. Then grandma picked you up, right after she came back from the salon. You puked right onto her hair, and her outfit, and the somewhat expensive rug beneath her feet. We wiped your chin and never loved you more.
Later on, what I would think to myself that I should have responded to that girl on that evening in February was, “So will I and that’s okay,” or something along those lines. Instead I shrugged, and tried not to smile and said without any real clue as to what I was doing, “I’m a really good cuddler.” For some marvelous reason, she thought that was perfect.
Like puking in hair, people are at their most charming unintentionally. Do not forget this, Sylas.
