Shifting on the stark white bed, I grimaced. Despite the steady drip of morphine, the pain was still there. It wasn't the biting agony like in the beginning, but it was still there, no matter how much I willed myself to ignore it. Even in sleep, the pain nagged at me, reminding me I couldn't escape. A dull ache in my right shoulder told of a dislocation recently corrected. Two broken ribs made breathing a chore. The scrapes and bruises were inconsequential at this point, their slight pains had been so minor in the scheme of things that now, four days later, they warranted not even a passing thought.

The worst, by far, was the leg. The left one. The right was just fine, thank God, and for that I would be forever grateful. But the left! The worst pain of all is the pain of death. Empty. Hollow. A constant throb of excruciating physical pain. Knowing why no one looked into your eyes when you asked about the leg. At seventeen and a star member of your school's track team, the leg would be your utmost concern, wouldn't it? It was mine.

That was after I knew I had survived the crash, of course. The slippery road, the truck I didn't see, the way time seemed to slow so that I could experience every detail of that truck plowing into my small red car–these things I would remember for the rest of my life. In a crash like that, your first thought is, "Am I going to die?" Once you realize that no, you're still alive, you try to make sense of things. And when you figure out that your left leg is pinned, you start to panic. At least, that's what I did. It only got worse as paramedics informed me that said leg had been crushed from the knee down. Totally crushed. That's when the leg took over my thoughts. Forget my other injuries–no big deal. But the leg! I was the best sprinter and hurdler on our track team, and I had one heck of a shot at a scholarship. I needed that leg! I had to have it! It was all I cared about.

The door to my hospital room swung open. My parents filed in with the grave faces they had been sporting the last four days. Two doctors followed: the general trauma doctor, and the head surgeon. I eagerly searched their faces for some sign of hope–something that would reassure me that there was a way to restore my leg back to its healthy, glorious splendor. I found none. The trauma doctor cleared her throat. "Ashleigh, we, ah..." The surgeon stepped in, then. He was a trim guy with heavy black brows and a no-nonsense way about him that at the moment, I greatly appreciated. I was so tired of not getting any answers. "We've gone over your case and examined every possibility. Basically what it boils down to is that you have to make a choice. You can choose to keep your leg, but you must know that most likely, you will never have any use of it again. But you would still have your own two legs."

I digested this slowly, realizing what my other option would be. An angry, sorrowful tear traitorously made its way down my cheek. "And the other?"

"We remove the leg, from just above the knee."

Even knowing it was coming, the words still hit me like a kick to the gut. I closed my eyes, and heard my mother's wail. Felt my father step closer to the bed, as if to give me comfort by being near. Sensed the doctors watching me carefully. The trauma doctor found her voice again. "We know you'll want some time to process this, to come to a decision."

Shaking my head, I opened my eyes slowly, dashing the errant tear away with the back of my hand. Track stars don't get to the top without a strong will to win. The image of myself hobbling around, dragging a bum leg behind me for the rest of my life, was not a winning situation. I didn't hesitate. Looking straight into the surgeon's eyes, ignoring my mother reaching out to mournfully pat my hand, I replied strongly, "Take it off."

“I love you,” she whispered in my ear.

I could feel her arms around me, but they couldn’t penetrate the cold inside me.

“I’m staying here with you and Dad,” I announced militantly. Her arms tightened a fraction more, then let me go.

“No, you are not. You're going with your grandmother. Your dad and I will join you as soon as the other boats arrive.” She looked to my dad for support.

“You will go with your grandmama, and you will not argue. Remember, ladies do not argue.” He tempered his stern words by engulfing me in his arms. I buried my face deep in the thick wool of his coat, breathing in the faint traces of his favorite tobacco. For a moment I was safe, sheltered from the chaos around me.

But the moment ended abruptly as the ship rolled to the side, tearing me from his arms. I fell to the deck as pandemonium broke out. In an instant, the orderly lines of people waiting for lifeboats transformed into a panicked mob.

I tried to get to my feet but was pushed back down by the crowd. Legs and feet swirled around me - a lady’s velvet slipper, a workman’s worn boot, a gentleman’s fine leather shoe. Each one pushing at me, pushing past me, so intent on their goal that I was nothing more than an obstacle in their path.

Then I saw strong hands reaching for me, pulling me up, and I was again in my father’s arms.

“You must go – now,” he said harshly.

My world tilted again as he lifted me into the lifeboat.

“No!” I cried. I stood up, trying to get out of the lifeboat, but a sharp tug on my coat pulled me back.

“You must not,” said a voice in a heavy German accent. “You must stay with me.”

I struggled out of my grandmother’s grasp, but it was too late. The lifeboat had swung away from the ship and was being lowered towards the cold waters of the Atlantic. My eyes searched the deck, looking for any sign of my parents.

I saw a flash of pink and recognized my mother’s dressing gown. She calmly stood next to my father, looking as if she were preparing for a party, instead of standing on the deck of a faltering ship, a jacket hastily thrown over her nightclothes.

“Why are they standing there? Why aren’t they heading for another lifeboat?”

My grandmother remained silent.

Lifeboats descended from the ship like spiders, suspended in the night air. The boats that had already reached the ocean were being frantically maneuvered away from the ship, as if afraid that its impending doom might be powerful enough to suck them into its black abyss. Everywhere I looked there were lifeboats – except on the ship.

As our lifeboat continued its descent, I watched my father put his arm around my mother, drawing her close. As the first fingers of frigid water pulled at our boat, I watched my mother turn in his arms, burying her face in his thick wool jacket.

As our boat abandoned the larger vessel to its inevitable doom, I watched my father give my mother a gentle kiss, and saw her arms steal around his neck.

The men pulled at the oars, and the cries of those left behind faded. I watched my parents until they disappeared from sight, marked only by the dark outline of the once-majestic ship.

Eventually that, too, vanished, swallowed by the icy waves.

They call it a pre-op suite, but that’s just a fancy name for a waiting room with soft lighting, plush furniture, and New Age music. I guess it’s supposed to be soothing, but I prefer something with more of an edge. And who came up with that term “New Age” anyway? Newer than what? It’s so pretentious.

I should stop. It’s not good to be grumpy. I’ve heard that how you go into surgery is how you come out. I’d rather not be here, but because I really have no choice, I guess I should try to relax.

Yeah, right. Relax. That’s what Mike told me when I first broke the news to him. Of course I was in tears. But that was mostly from the stress of not knowing how he’d take it. Plus the irrational feeling that it was somehow his fault.

I knew it wasn’t his fault. But he was the first to notice the lumps – right in the middle of making love. I never particularly cared for the way Mike fondled my breasts to the exclusion of all other body parts. But his enthusiasm probably saved my life.

Well, I guess that remains to be seen. I still have to get through this surgery.

It will be odd to be without my breasts. I’ve had them for three-quarters of my life. But I must admit they haven’t always been welcome companions.

It all started out badly. It was the summer before second grade. I was somewhat of a tomboy. There were five of us. We spent the long hot days exploring the cool of the woods. We built forts, smoked catalpa beans, and dared each other to climb trees to dizzying heights. But one day, we went further into the forest than we had ever gone before. When we came upon the waterfall, without thinking we all stripped down and jumped into the water. We were laughing and splashing and enjoying the cool wetness. But then, Bobby started making fun of me. He called me “Flat Chest” and the rest of them mercilessly joined in. Hurt and confused, I struggled back into my clothes and ran all the way home. By the time I got there I was muddy, teary, and covered with scratches. But the humiliation didn’t end there. Once school started, I found I had acquired a new nickname. On the walk to and from school and on the playground (but never in front of the teachers) everyone called me “FC.”

So needless to say, I was impatient for my breasts to finally develop. Then, in sixth grade, the boys who used to shun me suddenly took an interest in my developing figure. I reveled in the attention, but never could reconcile how the growth of my chest could change what people thought of me.

In high school, I finally found someone who really liked me. He was different – smart and sweet. We were both on the yearbook staff and spent an inordinate amount of time in the darkroom together. One day, his libido overpowered his shyness. As we were leaning in to examine a developing print, he slid his hand up my blouse. I think he was more surprised than I was. We carried on for several weeks, but I eventually found excuses to not join him in the darkroom. Looking back, I really wish I wouldn’t have been so fickle.

Eventually, I found that I had a talent. I took up running and became a track star. I could run for miles without even feeling winded. My abilities carried me on through college. But running is not something one can do for a living. So I got a job and shortly after got married. I still try to run in at least one marathon a year – it’s quite exhilarating. But even with the best sports bra and plenty of Vaseline, my breasts do get rather raw after twenty-six miles.

I’ll never stop running. But now I know it will be different. And maybe I’ll finally be able to tell Mike about “FC” and my trysts in the darkroom and the blood I find on my bra after a race. After all, I’ll have nothing to hide behind.

Mother: n. A woman who conceives, gives birth to, or raises and nurtures a child.
tr.v. To watch over, nourish, and protect maternally.

Examples of famous mothers include Mother Mary, Mother Earth, and Mother Theresa.

Motherhood is deified, as mothers are the creators of life on Earth. Women who are pregnant are glowing in maternal love. Media worships the mother.

This is what confused my five-year-old mind when my mother woke me up at 1 am, dragged me by my hair into a cold shower, and proceeded to cut it haphazardly. Mothers are supposed to be good and caring, aren’t they?

I grew up on reruns of Leave it To Beaver and The Brady Bunch, and I had an idea of what a mother should be. We went to church every Sunday where I was constantly reminded of the Ten Commandments, especially to honor thy father and mother.

But the minute the door closed to our house, the true nature of my mother would emerge.

The hardest thing in life to accept is that your mother wants to hurt you. That is made harder by people who don’t want to listen and prefer the images on the screen of the cookie baking kiss a boo-boo and heal it reign of mothers.

I could not understand this dichotomy; I thought I wasn’t honoring my mother enough. By age seven I did all the cooking and cleaning. I was on honor role every semester of school. In junior high school I managed to finish three years of Math in one year, the first female in the district to accomplish such a feat. In public my mother was adored for having such a fine child, they all complimented her for her job well done.

Every day I had to wear long sleeved sweaters to attempt to cover the marks. By high school I talked, but it was too late. I was to be honored for my academic prowess and my mother for her “fine job in raising such an upstanding youth.” Photos of my wounds were taken but my good grades led credence to my torturer’s claims that I was just a klutz.

And I still thought, somewhere in the back of my mind, that it was my fault.

I won scholarships to prestigious colleges and was the first in my family to go to college, and the first to leave our hometown. I’d like to believe that I wasn’t the first to finally realize that what had happened wasn’t my fault, and that it was wrong for such things to ever happen.

I tried one last conversation, to figure out what gone on for so many years. I invited my mother to my house in the big city. I hadn’t seen her in a few years, and had listened to friends who couldn’t possibly understand, friends who insisted I talk it out with her because she’s my mother and she loves me.

When she came she asked for her Diet Coke and ice cream, so I went to the store leaving her alone with my cat and my belongings.

When I came home my cat was crying in the corner with hairpins stuck in her and my house had been greatly disturbed.

“You always were so butch,” my mother explained, “so I threw out all that crap, it’s not right for a woman to own such things.” Down the incinerator had gone my baseball memorabilia- Yankee towels, cups, special dolls and letters I had received for working on a charity campaign with the team- she hadn’t missed an item. I was soothing my cat after taking off the hairpins, when I looked at her and realized I had never had a mother, just a monster.

Finally I asked the question that had burning in the back of my mind since age five.

“Does it just make you feel better to bring pain to innocent creatures?”

I received an honest answer.

“Yes, it makes me feel powerful,” she said.

I personally escorted her to the train station that day, paying extra to change her departure time, and we haven’t spoken since.

I’ve never felt better.

Jenna pushed off with her foot and twirled around, her feet hanging down a few inches from the ground. She adjusted herself on the tyre and pushed off again, higher this time. Hanging on with one hand, she leaned back, her long strawberry, blond hair hanging down, as she looked straight up at the sky.

“Jenna, Ben’s here,” her foster mother’s husky voice called out to her, through the screen door. Jenna’s stomach turned a somersault as she leaped off the tyre, her bare feet landing in the tall yellow grass beneath her. She smoothed her red sundress down at the back, where it had gotten caught up on the tyre, and started walking towards the house.

It had been six months since she had seen her brother. Too many unanswered questions created a knot in Jenna’s stomach, and she took a deep breath as she pushed the creaky, screen door open. Flaps of mesh hung off it where the dogs had chewed at it, wanting to come inside.

“Do I tell him?” a nagging question in her head.

He was sitting in the living room. The first thing she noticed was his hair had grown into one of those mop looking haircuts. Just like all the other teenage boys she saw, hanging out at the shopping centre.
A giggle escaped her lips before she could stop it and instantly Ben turned towards her voice.
“Jenna!” his green eyes lit up as he stood up. He reached down putting his long, lanky arms around her awkwardly, and Jenna smelt the familiar scent of her brother.

“He looks so normal, unlike you,” her head clamoured again.

“Hi Ben,” Jenna smiled shyly. She sat down on the blue couch and Ben did the same.
“How are you Jen Jen?” Ben asked.
Jen felt that somersault in her stomach again at the sound of the familiar nickname. She had not heard it since before the accident.

“He was so upset after the accident, do you really want to upset him again?” her head was full of commentary today.

“I’m ok,” Jenna answered quickly.

Steering the topic away from herself she asked about Ben. Kathy, her foster mother, brought out some salt and vinegar chips and two glasses of cola, and set them on the table, as Ben talked. He was doing well at school, mostly A’s he had boasted. He told her about his new job at the local shopping centre, in the suburb where he lived now. Forty minutes drive away but for Jenna that may as well have been 40 hours away. He had a new bike, he was studying to get his learner’s permit and he had made lots of new friends.

He kept talking. Talking about this new life that didn’t include her anymore. Jenna let the words wash over her. She furrowed her brow, drawing lines in the condensation on her glass, with her finger.
“Well anyway tell me about what’s happening with you.” Ben said gazing at her intently.

“It was your fault remember, you can’t ruin things again.”

Jenna rubbed her hands over her eyes, remembering. Her parents had been rushing to pick her up from her soccer match. So she wouldn’t be late for Sarah’s party. They had been killed instantly in a head on collision. Jenna remembered the crushed look on Ben’s face when he found out. How he had tried to be strong for her but couldn’t hold it in anymore. Finally letting it all out and wailing uncontrollably at their funeral. She couldn’t do that to him again.

Jenna told Ben about her new school and the children there, not mentioning that they were all awful to her. She told him about her new bike, art set and the playstation she had been given. She didn’t tell him why she had been given these things. The promises not to tell anybody. The hurried, forced whispers to keep her quiet. She didn’t tell Ben about the way she felt sick to her stomach whenever she heard the creak of her bedroom door, saw the familiar shadow of her foster father creeping into her room.

Jenna told Ben the things he needed to hear. An hour later she waved goodbye to him, standing on the verandah, her red sundress clutched tightly in one fist, wondering when she would see him again.

I miss you. I am not above admitting it.

Every morning I used to wake up to your soothing sounds. Your scent, your very essence would awaken all my senses.

I’d feel your warmth inside me; your sensuous tingling would enliven all my cells. Knowing you were with me, I could face the day. Any problem could be solved.

But we can no longer be together.

“You are too dependent,” my best friend said, “you need to take a break.”

Is dependence really such a bad thing if it brings us both happiness?

“It’s for your health,” my mother said, “you know you have high blood pressure.”

My heart raced more thinking of a life without you by my side.

Yet, here I am waking up to a life without you. Here I am, forcing my eyes open from a tumultuous slumber, my nostrils flaring in anticipation of an aroma that will not come.

I peel myself from the bed and into the bathroom. The face in the mirror is not mine, it can’t be- the reflection is too empty. I attempt to brush my teeth, missing my mouth and hitting my cheek with the toothbrush, cursing at your absence.

I feel no warmth as I begin the search through my closets for something, anything, to wear to work. There is the meeting with a new client today. Why must we part before the big meeting? I begin the battle with the pantyhose. In a sleep-deprived haze my teeth-bitten fingernail goes through my last pair of stockings. Looking through the closet again I settle on a pantsuit and my new pumps. I got them after I decided we must part.

I run out the door and to my car. My keys are back in the apartment. I leave my briefcase by the car and run back for the keys. I return to find the car, but no briefcase. If I had had you near, I would have never left my briefcase alone. I would have known better.

My eyes are half closed as I look in the rearview mirror and catch a frightening site – I have not yet put on make-up. The light is red; I fumble through the glove compartment for the emergency make-up bag. The honking of an angry Oldsmobile notifies me of the green light.

You should be here with me.

Finally I make it to work, late. The meeting is in one hour. I run into my office and face my boss.

He is drinking a cup of coffee- black, two creams, one sugar. The steam rises and comes to me, beckoning.

My boss is speaking but all I hear is your movement as you slosh in the cup to his gesticulations. You send out tendrils of aroma to entice me.

You know I want you.

I look at my boss as he stares at me; I nod and agree to something only you and he know. Satisfied, he walks out and you tease me, wrapping yourself around my head as you walk by, begging me to give in.

I throw my keys on my desk and boot the computer. I look to the right of the mouse pad and see the ring, your ring. That is where you sit each and every day, helping me, guiding me toward a life among the awake.

I stare at that spot as I hear the phones ring, the clock tick, the computer boot, and the secretaries on the telephone speaking of the new Starbuck’s that just opened down the street, a block from the one on the first floor, which is three blocks from the one on Main Street.

I look out the office door and see my secretary returning to her desk with a Mochaccino Grande with a twist of cinnamon, her daily ritual. She stops before sitting down, holding her cup. I can see the warmth emanating in beautiful circles of gold from you. I see the smoke signals you send, telling me you want to be with me as much as I want to be with you. Smoke signals of love and understanding. You only wish to help me.

Why, oh why, did I choose to give up coffee for Lent?

Dobbins replaced the 50mv capacitor with a 100mv beauty he had hauled out of a mobile Newtonian reflecting telescope the previous week. “Take a look here, Dave, I’m putting in a shunt here, a little safety measure, because I’m just not sure,” he said to Dave the Helper. “I’m not sure at all, Dave. This all looks fine and dandy, but I can’t be completely sure here, Dave. You follow me Dave?” Dave’s nod assured Dobbins that Dave followed him.

“This is an iffy thing we’re doing here, Dave, an iffy thing. Pioneer work, that’s what it is. I don’t want things to go badly here, Dave, even though I’m not worried at all, not the least little bit, but you can never be too careful. Catch my drift there, Dave?” Dave acknowledged the catching of the Professor’s drift.

“Here’s the thing, Dave. Here’s where I really need you. You need to be vigilant, Dave, understand?” Dave nodded; he understood. “You and I, we’re only going to have a fraction of a second to respond if things go … not quite right. Got that, Dave?” Dave got that.

“Vigilance, Dave, that’s the key. Vigilance. And here’s the thing. It is vitally important … critical, actually … that you stay well inside the Zone Of The Ethers for the entire time that the transmogrification procedure is underway. Critical, Dave, absolutely critical. Are you with me here, Dave?”

Dave the Helper blinked rapidly and involuntarily, feeling the pressure mount. ”You can count on me, Professor Dobbins. I will stay well inside the Zone Of The Ethers for the entire time that the transmogrification procedure is underway.”

“Good fellow, Dave, there’s a good fellow. Here we go then. Ready, Dave?” Dave indicated that he was ready. Professor Dobbins adjusted the capacitor settings until the Zone Of The Ethers radiated to a distance of just under 1.7 metres, the threshold distance. Dave the Helper’s eyelids blinked a frantic rhythm. Dobbins tapped the tiny rheostat with a fingernail to test its soundness, firm within its housing near the coil, and inserted a 30v in-line fuse that would accept the increased power that he had determined was necessary for a successful result. He worked anxiously, encouraged by the response he had received from the AMA. “While the truly functional Cerebral Doinker remains a scientist’s dream, your bypass schematics show a promise that has apparently escaped the imaginations of previous researchers” they had said. Made him tingle, that did.

Professor Dobbins raised his voice, to be heard above the capacitor’s whine. “Ready, Dave?” Dave was ready. “Are you within the Zone Of The Ethers?” Dave indicated that he was within the Zone Of The Ethers. “Good man, Dave, good man. Be ready for anything, and don’t forget to stay well inside the Zone Of The Ethers for the entire time.” Dave communicated his accord with this plan.

“Here we go, then,” said Professor Dobbins. Carefully placing the electrodes under his eyelids, Dobbins instructed Dave the Helper to engage the solenoid. Dave the Helper did as instructed. Then, with Professor Dobbins’s vision impaired, Dave rapidly retreated out of the room to the janitorial closet, some eighteen metres down the adjacent hallway. Even from that distance, far outside the Zone Of The Ethers, Dave could tell that things were not going well.

From his vantage point well inside the Zone Of The Ethers, Professor Dobbins was dealing with the less attractive effects of the transmogrification procedure. His polyester socks disappeared almost immediately, fusing visibly to his ankles. His eyes sizzled, then popped, splattering vitreous fluid on the Doinker fuselage. Dobbins gasped, his blistered tongue darting from between his lips as each of the stubs of hair on his shaved head emitted a tiny coil of blue smoke. After several seconds the 30v in-line fuse arrested the current, and the prototype Cerebral Doinker sat silent. Dave the Helper returned to room. Professor Dobbins’s flesh bubbled merrily.

“Maybe a bit bigger shunt next time, Professor,” proffered Dave the Helper. “Professor Dobbins?” He nudged the grilled corpse with the toe of his shoe. Several of the professor’s body parts fell away. “Professor Dobbins? A little bigger shunt, that’s what I’m thinking. Good effort, though, Sir. You should be proud.”

A lofty moon, once abbreviated beyond distant trees now holds fast in the sky. Its radiance washes upon me as I bend my hand and record this last notation. Sitting upon these steadfast marble stairs with pen
and tablet, I recount not what was lost but what I will soon share in a quiet grave. I still think of you, Leslie, but you have already found your soft patch of earth beneath the roses so long ago. You were left in mortal abandon and I, a tireless wretch could only have hoped for such a fate. Shall I write postscript for a reader who would happen by and inspect this writing? I explain nothing more to you, my audience than to read with a believing heart for my tale is credulous.

It has come to my attention these days that man should fill his void with carriages of steel and glass and dwellings that glow with the fire of 1000 lanterns. None the same my nourishing keep, for it would all
be such paltry dirt once our paths crossed and the final curtain closed. I once felt my own piercing caress of Lord Farleigh upon my throat, death should have followed, yet my own grip would soon fall upon a first victim in his stead.

How many countless souls have been lost in my wake? The first weeks I counted, then lost count, and none were spared. Yet I fail to omit you, dearest Leslie. Your perfect skin and untouched beauty overcame my audacious tendencies. How we would dance, and your perpetual tug at my sleeve to join you in the sunlit world would bring such a plea to wander where I nay, could. "My dear, I shall surely burn my fair skin" I would say. And you, with a speculative grin would always take refuge in the library, reading aloud from the great works before us.

Sadly, the days had traveled beyond your time; I would grow stronger while you grew older. I recall so many nights of shedding not tears, but silent rage as my dead heart struggled with the desire to keep you for myself - or for yourself. Yet, though I would feel such pain, the pain of loss, I found solace that you would meet your god with pure conscience upon my leave.

Do you remember the day your brother had me taken by force and hanged? I, in pensive solace was met with not one but one hundred men who sought to end my days. And I again, acquiescent to the beating lain upon me finally hung limp in the courtyard whence scarce a breath could be seen from my chest. Imagine the terror upon the poor mongrel's face, when he who was paid such a crude sum to drag my corpse for interment found himself standing with his face to mine! I acted not for my bemusement, dear Leslie but to save your very soul. So you see, it was for the better that you should believe me dead than to realize my true vitality.

The sun has chased the moon beyond the horizon, and I should look upon it one last time as the immortal stranger it has become. Till my last breath, as I burn, I still think of you lest my memory has faded from your eternal thoughts these two hundred years.

I know you are out there. I can almost feel your presence. Yet night after night I sleep in this large bed all alone as darkness envelops me. I yearn to feel your warmth, your gentle touch as you run your hands over my body, and the soothing sound of your voice as you whisper my name. I know you are close, but we've never met.

My mother told me my soul mate would appear when I was ready. So I've waited patiently, and I've prepared. But my daily routine has somehow taken over and I don't think of you as often as I should. Forgive me. Did we bump into each other on the street today and not notice? Did I offend someone who would have brought us together? Why do I soak this bed at night with tears of longing? When will you come into my life? I need you, my love.

I hold on to my mind's images of you. I can see your smile and imagine your scent, your taste. You know our hearts are stitched together for all eternity. We are meant to be. It is the reason for our existance. So, why this painful separation? Does God wish to see if I am worthy? Am I being tested? I have remained faithful! I wait. Not knowing what faith you will be, I've studied all the major religions and attend worship services weekly at different places. Have you seen, but not noticed, me?

I've learned to cook like a chef. I can make the sole of a shoe taste like the finest filet. You will be a fat and happy married man. I've mastered sewing, knitting and quilt making. I have different weight quilts for each season, and different colors to match our moods. And I have taken etiquette and dance lessons so you will never be embarrassed of me. I can promise you that.

I treasure the thought of our intimate times. There are lightly scented vanilla candles I bought at the mall. I tucked them toward the back of the hall closet with the red satin sheets I bought over the internet. I have a fine bottle of Pino Grecio wrapped in tissue paper waiting to be opened. I've also found a special spiced perfume that I know you will love. I have not worn it. I am waiting to share it with you. I bring the bottle out and open it each year on my birthday, and it never fails to set my imagination ablaze. I need you, my love.

Why are you making me wait so long? Why? Come to me now, I beg you. Don't wait until old age when we cannot enjoy each other. I am young, at least youthful in appearance. Many people say I am even pretty. I stay out of the sun just for you. My complexion is quite extraordinary, and I brush my hair one hundred strokes each night.

When you come you will find my dowry quite suitable. I live frugally so you will be proud of how much I have saved for us. I plan on surprising you with a beautiful marriage gift (besides myself). I so want you to be happy.

But tonight, like last, I sit alone and write in this journal. I pour out my love onto this paper hoping my words may somehow reach your heart and draw you near. When will this separation of our souls end? The days of our isolation cannot possibly last much longer. My heart leaps at the thought of our lives, our bodies, touching and then mingling together. But the reality is you are not here. My heart sinks, again. Hurry to my side, my love. Leave me alone no longer.

She was beautiful. And she was mine, for a while. And now she's gone.

She would rather have moved to another country than have to deal with the whole "us" situation.

Our time together was unique only to ourselves because we've never experienced anything like it before. I was I was a child, and she was a child in this kingdom by the sea. And we loved with a love that was more than love, but unlike Poe's Annabelle Lee, my love wasn't shut in a sepulcher. Instead she boarded an airplane and left for reasons unknown.

We were friends first. Then we were in love. We were finally together long after that. And then we were nothing but reminders for each other of what we once were. And this, I believe, is why she made her exodus. She didn't want to have that reminder, and it didn't look like I was about to move on with my life any time soon.

She's the one who broke up with me.

Our breakup was tediously heart wrenching. Our goodbye was painful and it was short. She wouldn't have had it any other way. She never was any good at dealing with emotions- and, quite frankly, neither was I. We both foolishly believed, and still do, that we have the power to overcome our own feelings.

I often reminisce the night she left forever. Not what actually happened, mind you, but what could have.

The words are different. The result is the same, always the same.

I walked my love to her car, knowing with unblinking certainty that this would be the last time I'd ever see her. We promised each other we'd meet again. Promises made this late in any relationship mean almost as little as the ones made in the beginning.

We walked in silence, hand in hand. Everyone has those few people they feel comfortable being quiet around. She was one of mine, but this wasn't one of our more comfortable silences.

It took us a million years to reach her car. I only wish it could have been an eternity.

I spied her eying the door immediately. I can't say I blame her, I almost wanted her to leave without saying a word myself. How do you condense what took you a lifetime to figure out into one goodbye?

"I guess this is goodbye," she finally broke the silence. I wonder if it just hit her right then.

"Give me a kiss," I replied, playing the cool character even though I didn't know how she would respond. Our boundaries since our breakup weren't very defined. Some nights we would kiss almost endlessly, others it was completely out of the question. I think she was trying to break herself of what she considered was a bad habit.

Tonight, she complied. And we had what would become our final kiss. It was a little quick, and my lips were dry, but it still holds a special place in my heart.

She fell into my arms after that, and she let me hold her for a little. I held on for dear life, knowing the second I let go she'd slip away forever.

"Don't go," I pleaded. Never before had I meant something so sincerely. "Don't go, don't go, don't go."

"I won't," she promised.

"Marry me?"

"OK."

She left merely moments after that. She had to. Either way, fantasy or reality, it's what she had to do. And I've never blamed her.

Logic dictates and history indicates that we can only love again. No one is able to close off their hearts forever, and no one wants to. I do not know whether or not she has found her new love, but I can only wish her the best. I was a child, and she was a child. Horrifically, I'm a child still. Will I love again? Undoubtedly. Do I still love her? This isn't a question for me to answer. All I will say is this:

You never forget your first love.