Craig – Part One

I was thirteen when I first laid eyes upon him. He would become the infatuation of my teenage years. And still now, to this day, if I close my eyes, I can still hear him sing to me. But in the beginning he never sang to me, he would not sing to me until thirteen years later.

He was the Tin Man in the school musical of the Wiz. I was in the chorus and the moment I heard his voice, those electric notes poured over me like liquid night. I was lost; hopelessly and utterly lost within the music that was he. I always watched him from a distance. I knew only too well my limitations and boundaries. I was but a child at thirteen and he was on the brink of manhood at 16. so I did all I could do, watch. I would watch the way he interacted with his friends, the way his face constricted to reach a note perfectly and the ease in which his lungs were able to fill the reed of his saxophone, expelling the most perfect rhythmic jazz notions. There was something about him that consumed me and left me lost for words and breath. This was my first real school-girl crush. I was perched headlong on the edge of teenage hormones and he called to me in a way I had never before understood.

I was able to create my own world. A world inside my own imagination where we both could reside together and I would spend my days day-dreaming of him and doodling his name across my school books. My imagination knew not the bounds of what kept us apart and I would fantasise that one day I would hear him call my name and on that one day we would walk through school hand in hand and he would not care that I was only thirteen. I would become his doll, small and fragile and he would sing to me.

One day I found some courage and I picked up the phone and called him. We spoke, although I asked to remain anonymous. We would talk for hours, about school, about the things we liked and dis-liked and I was surprised to find how easy it was, how comfortable it was to speak to him when he knew not who I was. It would become our afternoon delight. I am sure for him, it must have been intriguing to know that there was this little person out there who thought he was the sun, and the moon and the stars, and yet he knew not who she was. He knew the voice on the other end of the phone and he knew all that lay insider her, and yet he did not know her name or the contours of her face.

Everything changed one day when a friend told him who I was. My anonymity shattered and the invisible wall that I had been able to hide behind, the wall that had become my safety harness were removed. I was out in the open, unarmoured, defenceless and ashamed. I knew who and what I was, but most importantly, I knew who and what I was not. He was on one level and I, I was somewhere much, much further below him. We would not speak again for thirteen years. My adolescent heart broken and torn, it was the first time my heart would be broken. The first time that it would be reiterated to me that I was ugly, that I was not good enough.

Dion

He was tall and lanky and three years older than I. He was the beginning of my fixation with tall men. He was the beginning blossom of girlhood romance, childlike innocence and first kisses. He was smart and somewhat shy in the presence of others and yet with me, he always appeared so self-assured, so confident. I was eight years old when we met. I was eight years old and diving head first into the spinning well of love’s first embrace.

My memories are somewhat tattered, torn and aged by time and yet there are snippets of time that seem to be caught between then and now and I can remember them as clearly as if they had happened only moments ago. Memories of closing my eyes so tightly when my school friend had told him that I was in love with him, closing my eyes thinking (as a child does) if I can not see him, he can not see me. But he did see me. And that rainy winter’s day marked the beginning of my romantic journey into adulthood.

He was my first kiss… hidden in the darkness of my walk-in wardrobe thinking the darkness would hide the embarrassment and clumsiness of childhood love. He is memories of silent kisses blown my way whilst our parents were not looking. He is the memory of thrill and excitement, as we are sitting at a restaurant with our families and his foot brushed my leg, his hand lingering on mine as he passed a dish to me. We were secret, silent and filled with impish inkling.

Days and evenings were spent in his parent’s basement, where we would listen to Roxette, play snooker, ping pong and darts, whilst our parents would hold their dinner parties upstairs oblivious to the blooming of loves first decree. We foolishly thought that no one knew. That our feelings were only true to ourselves, and yet, as innocence prevails, it is hard to hide what it is that is so true. We were childhood sweethearts until the high school years. We were the embodiment of hiding in the dark, snuggled under blankets watching movies in the dark and holding hands oblivious to the fact that everyone else knew. We were soft and gentle and innocent…. And then, and then we grew up and apart.

Twenty two years on, and he is now married. Our parents are still friends and still see one another, but things have been different for us for a long time now. I have become the sister he never had and our innocence remains in tact.

nothing but time

There is no one here who knows what it is like
to live inside my own mind.
and I gave myself to you,
a broken promise you threw and I wanted to take
you and make you mine.
but my heart was torn,
broken in two…
and all of my troubles have ended up here
in my mind where I can not stop them
moving inside me,
and I have nothing but time.