Sunday Scribblings: First Love

This Sunday’s Scribbling prompt is first love. If you can’t tell, I have been postponing Sunday Scribblings. I have been dreading writing this scribbling post because it’s… awkward. Who wants to hear about first love? (OK. Amendment: Who wants to hear about my first love? I cringe.) Why would I ever want to revisit some of these things? Oh, man. But you know what they say. An unexamined life and all that.

Let me warn you, this isn’t going to be a long post. It will be true to my heart, though. Short and, hopefully, sweet.

For some reason, the first image that came to mind was a boy in kindergarten I know. I don’t remember much, just snippets from that time, but I remember crushing hard on a boy. As much as one can crush on a boy in kindergarten. (Wow. I’m amazed I turn out the way I did because the whole crushing on a boy when I was around 5 is disconcerting and worrying.) I don’t remember much about this boy. Obviously, it wasn’t serious. I just somehow recall it well. If you would like to know, the boy is now a grown man, married, and has kids (I think). Don’t ask me how I know. I happened to run into him the other day. How do you react when you run into your kindergarten crush? It’s not weird that I ran into him. At my age, what’s weird is that I remembered and can recognize him. Apparently, he didn’t change all that much.

Some of my friends might think that my first love was The Worst Three Months of My Life. Not. Even. Close.

I’d say that if at all, my first love would have been a boy I fell for in high school. I was in tenth grade, I think. It didn’t go anywhere, but it changed me. I think for the first time, I saw love as an unselfish act. To care for someone’s well being. To give them their best chance. To think of the other person’s happiness before mine. That time taught me so much. Even after sixteen years, I still don’t understand what love is, but that little blip in time taught me a very meaningful little lesson. And life used a boy to teach me that.

If I’m completely honest, however, my first love was always my dad. I was daddy’s girl through and through. The first man I have ever loved, and the first man who loved me, was my father. I grew up with him being such a looming figure. Larger than life, charismatic person. With time, I’ve learned that he was not perfect. Far from it, actually. But he loved me. In his imperfect, messy way, he loved me. Trying to juggle his calling as a minister, his devotion to my mother, and trying to understand a strong-willed and independent daughter. There was a point in my life, before I grew up and saw the world, where I was loved. Safe and wanted. My dad gave me that gift. To know what it was like to truly belong. To start out my journey utterly and completely loved.

It’s been six years since he passed, and I miss him still. I am extremely grateful that I had the chance to love and be loved.