I remember
I remember the first time I fell in love.
What a feeling.
What a pain—dull, hot, beautiful pain.
Some call it butterflies in the stomach.
To me, they were bats.
Or some other, far more toothy creatures than butterflies.
Her name was Elma.
Every boy in the class was in love with Elma—maybe even beyond the class!
We used to walk in a group after school, following her from a distance.
Until she reached her home,
Then we’d just stand there, beneath her window,
sighing.
Some with butterflies,
some with werewolves in their stomachs.
Elma knew about the army of lovesick boys in our class,
but she didn’t gloat.
She was kind.
Modest.
Friendly toward us,
her loyal servants.
It lasted a while.
I don’t remember how long exactly,
but I remember feeling pregnant with love for Elma.
Later on, after a few years, or less, or more, doesn’t matter—
we all fell in love with Sanela.
Same story again,
except this time, sexuality had crept in.
Sanela had curves.
Elma didn’t.
I remember the day I was sitting in class next to my schoolmate
when a little note landed on the desk.
She opened it,
deliberately,
so I could read it too.
The note said:
“I’m in love with Duco.”
Duco was my nickname.
I didn’t even turn my head.
It didn’t matter anymore.
My little love-creatures had already carved Sanela’s name
into the walls of my stomach with their teeth.
Later, I thought about it.
How one day we burn with love for someone—or something—
and the next, when the fire dies down,
that person no longer tickles our heart, our belly, our everything.
How everything turns into almost nothing.
That was the first time I felt sadness.
Not general sadness,
but grief, emotional grief
for something lost.
Like breaking up with someone
you never even dated.
Like a funeral for the tiny dead animals
that once ran wild through your stomach for Elma.
As someone said in a song:
“It’s hard to say you love someone. And it’s hard to say you don’t”
Now, when I remember those days,
melancholy wraps itself around me.
Not for Elma,
not for Sanela—
they’re doing fine, they’re married, and I hope they’re happy.
I miss me.
That version of me
so pure,
so innocent.
So untouched by life
and its sometimes dirty, sometimes cruel roads.
I know that boy is still inside me.
I know he hides.
And I know why.
He’s angry, sometimes.
And I know he’s still madly in love.
I know him,
but he doesn’t know me.
And that’s for the best.
I have nothing to teach him,
but he has so much to teach me.
What I owe him is safety.
Because how can I be a good parent,
if I can’t even hold myself in my own arms—
and say:
I’ve got you.