Most people meet the love of their life sometime in their late twenties.  I met mine at the naive age of six.  He wasn’t the typical Prince Charming: he was a bachelor who owned a little dog and lived in a little apartment in a big city called San Jose.  Part of what appealed to my six-year-old brain was his “funnylookingness.”  He had wide-set eyes that were a deep chocolatey brown, dark brown skin, thin pink lips, and short military hair.  He was built like a bear, with a lumbering gait and heavy build.  The first time I saw him eat made me think of a wolf, devouring its prey in giant bites, with no regard for etiquette.

I remember going from being a local skater to an amateur one, and skating at several different rinks much bigger than the one I was used to.  The first time I had a lesson at this new rink in San Jose was with this man.  The very first day, I skated straight into his arms--literally.  Stupid.  I was big on first impressions and constantly pressured myself to be perfect, I could not help but feel intrigued by him; he laughed at me not in a mean way, but still with amusement.

As the weeks progressed, he captured my attention and held it captive.  It took me three months to figure out how he worked, from the technical side of things.  He never failed to surprise me just when I was thinking I had gotten to the bottom.  After each lesson, I would talk endlessly about him, and everything that had happened that day until whomever I was talking to walked off in exasperation.  I don’t know what made him so exciting to me, but perhaps it was how he was so open to everything and everyone.  Before meeting him, I always acted like everything was a competition.  It took me about a year to finally learn to let myself go, from watching and listening to him.  He never tried to preach or convince me to be more open, all he did was be himself, and as a result taught me more than any lecture could have.

I grew very attached to him, and, I think, him to me.  As the typical loner, I had spent my days at home playing with the orphans, the wizards, and the belles of historical literature  Their thoughts and actions were just so much easier to understand than living people’s.  Everything was explained right in the text, and the challenge of having to decipher meanings was lost.  Every morning, right when I got on the ice, he would ask, "What did you do yesterday?" And I would answer, "Read”.  It was always the same question and answer every day.  Once school ended and summer started, I would be at practice for hours at a time, and the morning could not begin until he had asked me that question.  A day did not pass without me needing this assurance, as it seemed to be, that he was real and not a figment of my imagination.

The day he died I almost drove myself crazy with something like survivor’s guilt.  My mom came into my room and sat on my bed.  When I looked up and saw her eyes close, I knew something important was about to happen.  A tear slowly trickled from the corner of her right eyelid, and she pulled me into a hug.  My ten-year-old instinct immediately thought about our old bunny.  I tried to imagine what could have have happened, but suddenly nothing seemed important enough to justify my mom’s distress.

“Dean died today.”
“What?”
No.  NO.  She’s couldn’t possibly be lying?

“I gotta go pee.”  I mumbled as I ran blindly into the bathroom.  Standing in front of the mirror, I tried to hold back my tears, but as hard as I tried, I couldn’t keep myself from feeling like I was dying inside.  I splattered water onto my face, barely able to turn the faucet on with my trembling hands.  It felt like I was disconnected from the world, and that a part of me had been ripped away and thrown out into the dreary moors of England.
Looking into the mirror, I stared at my reflection and chiding myself for leaving Mom hanging.  I tried to appear casual, thinking of another particular girl who was forced to leave her loved one.  Taking a breath, I stepped out into the hallway, where my mom was waiting.  Seeing her face brought out everything I had been holding in.  I threw myself at her and sobbed until everything within a foot of my face was soaked with either tears and snot.  Holding my head, she murmured into my hair.  I don’t remember what she said, and I don’t care, all I remember is sobbing and sobbing and sobbing until my mom finally pulled away.  Telling me to go to bed, telling me that the next morning would be much better.

The morning was even worse than it had been in the evening.  I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed and go to school.  I didn’t think I could bear the ignorant happiness that surrounded my school friends.  Their worst troubles were annoying boys and confusing homework.  That day I stayed at home and cried at an empty television screen, staring at my reflection in darkness.

That night I created a whole new personality for myself.  Putting up a barricade in my mind, I swore to myself to not let anyone else become as linked to my emotions as Dean had become.  I went back to who I had been before him.  I buried him deep in my mind, sealed in a wooden box.  Sturdy but light.  Ready when I was, a present for me to open when I needed something to lift my spirits.  I cried myself to sleep for weeks, each night hoping my friends wouldn’t notice the red puffiness I was sure would be around my eyes the next morning.