It’s nothing, really. Just a dried, crumpled flower lying crushed at the bottom of my old mahogany jewelry box. But I can’t help sifting through tangled chains and back-less earrings to find all the scattered, shattered pieces of what was once a memento to my most innocent of childhood memories. The flower that, I recall, glowed a vibrant pink has now faded to a muted coral, and the stem- twisted and tied into the shape of a ring- is long gone. Now, just the dried, raisin-like creased petals remain.
In my mind, it was a sweeping childhood romance that lasted two years until Thomas moved- sometime’s it’s to Pennsylvania, sometimes to New Jersey, and others it’s simply a few miles down the shore, to another part of town, or maybe just another town entirely. He relocated to the Cape, maybe. I remember him telling me the location, but that’s all. I can’t remember words- just the telling. How upset I was- was I upset at all? I think I was. My head says I was, but as hard as I search I can’t find any memories of myself telling my parents or friends how sad I was he was leaving. There’s an echo of a memory -- the corner of my lips pulling down into a frown whilst picking blades of grass from the ground I sat on next to him in the playground. But I tell my friends now how devastated I was, and how, at the tender age of eight, I wasn’t well-equipped to handle loss.
I’m sure we got along swimmingly. I remember one day, maybe the same day, balancing precariously on planks of wood that separated the wood-chip playground with the black-tar basketball court. I remember boasting that I could keep my balance longer, while my tangled expression of frustration concentrated on keeping one foot directly in front of the other. He was right behind me, and I remember looking back- just for a moment- to see him walking with the same level of focus that I had. My quick glance backwards threw me off balance, however, and my foot slipped off the plank and onto the playground, kicking up a few chips in the process. I held my breath, looking at Thomas, who hadn’t noticed my fall. I took the chance to step back onto the plank, keeping my balance the rest of the way. He thought we had both made it back without any problems, and I convinced myself this was true. It was an easier truth, and the reality wasn’t that big of a deal.
I pretend to remember other things- like stealing a quick, blush-inducing kiss on the cheek in the back of the line in kindergarten (an event my friends claim witness to, and a memory I have now that I’m not sure was planted by a retelling of events or really, truly remembered by myself). Then there are other tidbits- just talking, running, ‘double dating’ on the swing set with both Thomas and a variety of other students, much to everyone’s embarrassed frustration.
I do remember the flower, though. There were a few sitting there, in the middle of the field, and, tired from past excursions, we both sat down to rest. He picked one, then, and told me to give him my hand. I did, and I watched silently as he struggled for a moment with tying the long, green stem around my right index finger, satisfied when he got it to stay without unraveling. I smiled at the gift, inspired, and proceeded to pick a flower and ask for his hand, in turn. We both got up, then, with little flower-rings on our fingers, their pretty little pink petals a cause for teasing later in that day.
It was after that he told me he was moving. At least, that’s how I remember it. I may have just taken what few things pertaining to Thomas I could actually recall, and molded them into one collective memory, but I’m fairly certain that after we got up, flowers on our little fingers, he told me he was moving. I think the fact that, being eight, place held no meaning for me (just knowing he was going ‘away’ was enough- where, exactly, didn’t matter). That’s why, for all I know, he could have only moved out of range of our school. Or, for all I know, he could have in fact moved to Pennsylvania (the place that, for some reason, I use most often when telling this story).
I’ll say now that I didn’t find that little flower in my jewelry box. It should have been there, the place I stored it when I was just seven or eight, but it wasn’t. My memories are all that’s left of my childhood, and even that isn’t reliable. I’ve told the story so many times that I can’t remember what part of the story is true, and what part of the story is just that- a story.
One thing I do know, for certain, is that when I got home that day, in a fit of sentimentality, I took off my half-wilted ring and placed it inside my little mahogany jewelry box. Where it went from there, I couldn’t say. But every once in a while I go off in search of the little flower, always starting with that jewelry box. I still expect to someday find the shriveled petals- a token of my first childhood crush- as a confirmation of memories, both real and fabricated. Because, when dealing with the truth, only the reality that an event did, in fact happen (the extent of this truth notwithstanding) really matters.
A creative essay I wrote for my Creative Writing class. Hope you like it! Read, rate, and review, please =]
Samantha
