First love - let's see, would that be Gordon, that darling little mama's boy in fifth grade who wrote me a wonderful letter asking me to marry him, move to a farm in Canada and raise dogs, cats, horses, sheep, cows, and goats? Sounds appealing, doesn't it? Or would it be David,(another mama's boy-is there a pattern emerging here?)who took me to my first junior high school dance, and kept me company at the bus stop every afternoon, where we shared a Butterfinger candy bar while we waited.
Maybe it was Ed, my older cousin from Georgia, who spent two weeks at our house one summer. Tall, gawky, and oozing southern charm, he was handsome in a sort of devilish way. All my friends were entranced with his southern accent, and he had great fun teasing us with silly nicknames and jokes. I can remember all of us huddled in my backyard, crying our eyes out when he left to go home.
Well, I was definintely obsessed with these boys, but I know none of that was love. My attachment to them was based on imaginary emotions,feelings I had neither the wisdom or maturity to name at the time.
This is sappy, but it's true. My first love is the one dozing in front of the TV right now, the one that got up at 6:00 a.m. today (on a holiday weekend) to drive me to a music festival 75 miles away. He's the one that brings me coffee in bed every morning, who sends me text messages that say "thinking about you right now" or "love you." He's the one who has always supported my interests and my desires, no questions asked, no complaints made. Oddly enough, he was once, many years ago, a little bit of mama's boy. But for the past 30 years, he's been MY boy-first, last, only love.