I'd carried the box with me for almost thirty years because I'd never found the right moment to go to the post office and send it. As organized and efficient as I have always been, I'd just never found the time or the inclination to address it and send it. It came with me from Freehold to Boston, Boston to Atlanta, Atlanta to New York, New York to Barbados, and Barbados back to New Jersey.
I'd texted my mother two weeks ago and asked for his parents' address. She'd given it to me once before, another time I'd meant to send it and then didn't after getting heated about her having their new address and telephone number after all of these years. They'd moved again and she had the new address now. I've made my peace with their continued contact.
He'd been my first boyfriend, my very first at a time I was sure I'd never, ever have one. When we broke up, years later, after I'd followed him to university, his father had said some truly awful things about me. We were sixteen when we met. I'd long pined for him, a beautiful, shy, athletic boy. He was pretty, so, so pretty, with delicate features, long limbs, a kind heart, like the shy hero in the '80s teen romantic comedies. He was too sweet and lovely for me. His own father had said so once we broke up. I think he said something about "that kind of girl" and not being able to trust me.
I've held onto that comment as long as I'd had the box. Wondered just what kind of girl this man thought I was. Wondered how he'd found me to be untrustworthy after I'd dated his son for four years. Wondered how he could still be friendly with my parents and deem me "that kind of girl." I'd programmed myself to be a girlfriend, learned the tricks from television and movies. So desperate for any love and affection, I'd clung to this boy with all my strength and desire and need. I am sure I'd made promises I'd never be able to keep and promises for a future I could not quite visualize. I was sixteen and then seventeen and finally nineteen when we broke up. He'd been my first boyfriend and everything I was, I'd assigned to him.
The box contained a bracelet with his name on it, given to him by his parents when he was a small boy, some Cub Scout badges and pins, collectible pins and patches from various Olympics and soccer camps and teams. They'd been the most important things in his young teenage life and he'd gifted them to me. I believe in the magic of objects, the energy bestowed upon them by whomever possessed them. Always loved that psychics and mediums could make a greater connection with departed loved ones if they could hold something that was either symbolic or important to them. Even when I knew that this boy, now a man, could not forgive me my transgressions, had not yet found a way to incorporate our young love into his narrative, I could not bring myself to get rid of these special things.
When I stumbled upon the box looking for something else, I felt the immediate need to send it. I opened it to make sure that everything was secure and wrapped each item in tissue paper. Then I wrote a note on carefully chosen stationery to his parents explaining what was in the box. Inside the box, I placed a card, written to him, with an apology and a wish for him and his family. I told him I hoped that the box and its contents would be a welcomed surprise, something he could share with his children. I'd treated the items with the utmost respect and care and was happy to return them with love and gratitude. I walked to the post office and mailed the package and wandered back home through the park. I felt that I'd finally made peace, after all these years, with how I'd hurt someone that I loved.
First loves unleash this incredible energy and power. I never knew I could love or be loved as I'd loved him. It wasn't mature, I know, but my love for my parents felt unrequited, they very seldom reciprocated, and he was the first person to return my affections and my need. I loved in the most desperate way. We were so entangled, knotted, that the thought of losing him left me panicked. He'd been everything. He answered for me the nagging questions, Was I deserving of love? Was I lovable? Was I beautiful? Was I desirable? For the first time the answer to these questions was yes.
It was so heady as so much of the teenage experience was. I'd felt alone and then he was there. It cannot be understated what those first kisses, long, crazy make out sessions were like for this girl. I'd practiced on my pillow, certain it would NEVER happen for me in real life, completely unprepared for just how many people one might be able to kiss in a lifetime. With each barrier broken, greater intimacy and connection created, I began to hook into him. Could not bear to be without my well spring of love and affection.
When he went away to college the year before I did, I prided myself on my loyalty to our great love. I was stoic and steadfast. We wrote letters and made lots of expensive phone calls. I visited him at school and pined for the day we could be reunited. I followed him to the same university the next year. He was the only love I'd ever known. And then came life. And I became "that kind of girl," for which I'd apologized profusely to him. To his family. To my family. The shame, the betrayal was mine. I'd fucked up or I'd grown up and I'd hurt everyone. He'd returned a beautiful gold necklace I'd given him, swore he could not bear any reminders of me. He said he regretted our time together, that he'd made a horrible mistake, that he should never have trusted me, that I was a terrible person. And I could not disagree. What had I done with love?
When we stopped seeing each other on campus, stopped trying to be friends as it was just too painful, stopped allowing ourselves to acknowledge that we'd gotten each other to the next phase of our lives, stopped showing love, I found the box. He didn't want it, he'd said. Didn't want anything from me. So I put it away for safe keeping and promised myself I'd send it in time.
Yesterday I received a letter from his mother. I'd sent the box to her to forward to him, sure he still wanted nothing to do with me. I recognized her handwriting immediately. She'd always been so good and so kind to me, was one of the things I loved in his life, his amazing family. She assured me that the package was on its way to him. She too thought it would be a welcome surprise for his children and thanked me for taking such good care of it. I read and re-read the note. Nearly thirty years ago I'd been completely in love with her son and had made promises I couldn't keep. But I did still love. For all those years, through all that BS, I'd been so grateful that he loved me and had loved him no matter that he believed me to be cruel and heartless.
I don't expect to hear from him. I didn't even address the note to him, but I am relieved and thankful that he can have these mementos and whether he can deal with it or not, the energy of the person who touched him is still on those objects and I loved him so.
(c) Copyright 2017. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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