| 89 Chevy Cavalier like my first car |
Blogger's Note: You may have noticed at the end of "Alanaka Episode III - The Lost City of Paducah" that there was a solicit to read "Brookport". You'll be seeing more solicits like these in future posts. Here's my reasoning.
Did you know that "Chapter 12 - On a Knee and a Whim" is now my second most viewed post ever? "Brookport", as many of you know, has the championship and is basically untouchable. I didn't solicit the twelfth installment as though it was a new chapter; I just encouraged people to see how I proposed to Joanna. In the Blogger's Note, I told people not to worry about getting caught up; they'd get the gist regardless. So, I think some new people did. They read the chapter; and, maybe, just maybe, they navigated back to the start and read it from the beginning. How do I know this? Because viewership from past chapters suddenly spiked. After adding the links at the bottom of each chapter, they were able to navigate along the path more easily.
After I linked the chapters in our "How We Met" story, I noticed a couple of things. For one, I was reading a post on my blog on my cellphone during my lunch break at work; I sometimes go back and "double" proofread a recent post. I usually find something that I missed during the first pass. I noticed that the links that show up along the edge of a post on my desktop's monitor wasn't there. In fact, my smart phone's layout was quite different from my desktop's. I believe that a large portion of my audience reads this blog on their smart phones, so I want to make it smart phone friendly.
After a couple of days, I had several new faces approach me. "I read your whole blog last night!" was something I heard from more than one person. Of course, this made me happy; but, I secretly doubted that the average person could read my entire blog in one sitting. You should see the binder that contains my whole blog. It's the size of two good-sized books. What I believe they meant was that they read the entire "How We Met" story. They were unaware that there was more to my blog because they were reading it on a smart phone and didn't see all the friendly links that I see. When they got to the end of the story, they thought that was it.
So, I've decided to add a solicit at the end of every post with the goal of getting people to try other features of Parenting with Lightsabers. I've linked together all of the Flashback episodes, and I plan to do something similar with my random posts. Hopefully, when I'm done, people will find navigating everything offered here just a little easier.
Now, on to today's Flashback episode...
I toyed with this one for quite some time. I kept pushing it aside, because it's a little uncomfortable to write. I was talking to Jeremy not long ago. We agreed that some of the best writings are the ones that provoke the reader; they make us all just a little bit uncomfortable. My heart yearned for someone besides Joanna? Everyone has a past "someone", but it's not really kosher to say that. Should I write about a previous love interest that's not Joanna?
So, I asked Joanna. "How would you feel if I wrote about my first love?" She said, "write whatever you want, just do the dishes asshole."
And now that I have her blessing I will proceed. Maybe when it's all over, we can all breathe again...
Listening to: Mason Jennings "Darkness Between the Fireflies"
When I turned 16, I filled out job applications anywhere I saw a "Help Wanted" sign. I knew that having my own car was going to require money, and I wanted my own money. I took the first job offer I got which was washing dishes at Chong's.
A couple of months later, I'd grown tired of working until midnight tackling dirty dishes with a discrepant crew of misfits. When I got a phone call one afternoon to come in for a job interview at Dandy's Yogurt in the mall, I jumped at the opportunity.
When I arrived, three women sat in a semi-circle at a plastic table in plastic chairs. One chair was empty; and, the largest, oldest lady encouraged me to sit there. She was a rather large woman, and her chair legs bowed somewhat as she sat puffing away on a cigarette. She had large, dark hair; and, I suspected her appearance wasn't something she put very high on her priority list. For some reason, she reminded me of Roseanne Barr.
"Hi, I'm Sherry." She introduced herself with a raspy voice that was somewhat intimidating. The other two girls, apparently much younger than her, smiled at me.
"Hi, I'm Duane," I responded.
"Oh? It says Harold on your application," Sherry countered.
"My first name is Harold; everyone knows me as Duane," I explained.
"Ok, well this is my sister Muffy and her friend Patty. We all work here; I'm the manager," Sherry began.
Muffy looked just like her name. She was a squat, chubby girl that, despite a lighter tint to her hair, looked like a miniature version of Sherry. Muffy sat dangling her flip flops just above the floor wearing a big, rosy smile like she was privy to the best joke she'd ever heard.
Patty, a study in contrast, had teased her hair so high that I wondered if she was hiding something behind her. She had quite a womanly body; and, if not for her young face which suggested that she wasn't much older than me, she could have passed for a woman of her thirties. She rarely smiled, and her dulled expression led me to the conclusion that she wasn't known for her cognitive abilities.
"Well, Duane, we're going to hire two part-time employees today. We need a little extra help, and we're looking for someone with good people skills. The position is about twenty hours a week, and it pays minimum wage: $3.35/hour."
Sherry didn't convey much emotion during her oration, and Patty just sat there dreadfully afflicted with boredom. Only Muffy supplied any evidence of life; her rosy, cheerful smile felt out of place during the routine interview.
"Well, if you want to walk around the mall, I still have a few interviews left. Come back here in about an hour, and I'll let you know whether or not you got the job," Sherry finished. I expressed my gratitude, and meandered around for the designated amount of time.
When I came back to the interesting trio, I found a fourth person there. A girl about my age with shoulder-length, dark hair that was modestly teased above her forehead as was the style. Her blue eyes and strawberry lips suggested that she never wanted for attention.
"Duane, this is Bridget," Sherry introduced. I smiled politely, and she smiled back. "We've decided to hire you two. If you can start on Thursday, be here at 4:30, and we'll train you together."
For a brief moment, I considered telling Sherry that I was scheduled to work at Chong's on Thursday; but, after a succinct consultation with my sensibilities, I decided that the choice of training with the cute girl or working late in the grimy smell of soapy water and nicotine would be one of life's easier decisions.
"Sounds great," I smiled with my response and left with a cheerful buoyancy.
On Thursday, after the dreaded call to Chong's to give my impromptu resignation, I drove to the mall to begin training for an after-school career in the frozen yogurt industry. I shoved UB40 into the tape deck and jammed to "Red, Red Wine" on the way; because, it indeed, make ya feel so fine.
Muffy and Bridget were the only two there when I arrived. Muffy said she'd be in charge of training us, and I had the oddest inclination that she was going to break out in song and dance like a scene from Grease or Cry-Baby. She might ping-pong from one shoulder to the next in a musical explanation of how to pull the handle on the machine that distributes the cold dessert. I wouldn't know the routine, but I could snap to the beat.
Muffy quickly guided us through the process of serving the customers. Weighing fudge, distributing rainbow sprinkles, and wiping down the counter were all part of our duties. She went over the nuances of breaking down one of the machines, cleaning it, and changing the flavors.
"You can eat as much frozen yogurt as you'd like; but, if you want extra toppings, you'll have to pay for those," she explained with a charismatic, Muffy smile.
"Oh," Bridget and I chorused as we mechanically aspired to reach her level of enthusiasm.
"Now, when we're slow like we are now, what we should do is make waffle cones," Muffy cheerfully explained. "Even if we don't sell them all, they're cheap to make, and the smell they make attracts business."
Bridget and I gathered around her as she demonstrated how to properly make a waffle cone. She'd pour some batter on the waffle grill, flip it, and release the lid. A cone-shaped wand was then used to roll up the waffle into the desired shape.
"Ok. So, I'll leave you two to take turns making waffle cones while I do some work in the back. If there's any guests, try to help them. If you can't, or if you have any questions, just come and get me." I thought she was going to skip to the back; but, thankfully, she walked.
Bridget and I were left alone to practice. I would make one, and she would make one. After a couple, we had gotten the process down pretty well. I didn't really see a need in continuing, but I didn't want to shun my duty. Bridget and I didn't talk much at first, but I suspected she felt the same way.
Suddenly, she began to make two in a row.
"Hey! Leggo my Eggo!" I insisted, using the slogan from the popular commercial.
Bridget's laugh was bubbly and engaging. I hadn't heard it before then, and I felt a hungry desire to hear it again. I rummaged through my arsenal of clever jokes and witty lines and prepared them for deployment.
"Interesting crew here, huh?" I approached our opening dialogue with some routine banter.
"Yeah..." Bridget raised her eyebrows and smiled on one side of her mouth. Her reply trailed away as she focused on waffle-cone making.
"The first time I met Sherry, I asked her what flavors of fudge she had. She said, 'chocolate, peanut butter, and rocky road.' I said, 'do you have laryngitis?' She said, 'no, just chocolate, peanut butter, and rocky road.'"
Bridget spiraled into one of those frustrating laughs. You know the kind? The ones that you don't really want to loose; but, when it comes, it grows and inflates to the point that it becomes larger than it probably should be. She doubled over with that bubbly laugh, so I took the cone-making reins. Success!
With Bridget laughing hysterically and me beaming with triumph, the sound of someone clearing their throat behind us interrupted our mirth.
A large boy about our age stood at the register wearing a jersey. He was a head taller than me, and a scowl was plastered on his face that appeared at home. Bridget straightened as soon as she saw him.
"Oh." Bridget's laugh abruptly stopped. She hurried to open a cabinet door beneath the register and rummaged through her purse until she produced a set of keys that she gave to him. He took them angrily and stomped away.
After she returned to our duty, her demeanor had transformed. She looked serious and distant.
"Boyfriend?" I asked her.
"Yeah..." Her answer trailed away as if she was trying to distract the subject and replace it with anything else. I didn't pursue the subject.
"You two are doing great!" Muffy approached us wearing dimples on either side of her chubby face.
Bridget and I smiled politely before she began to teach us how to use the cash register. The afternoon rolled on in such a fashion; and, by the end of the night, she had pretty much gotten us trained.
The next couple of months rolled along. Usually Bridget and I worked together at least once a week, sometimes more. Even though I knew that she had a boyfriend, I still enjoyed our shifts together. Muffy was too easy to amuse, and Patty was too difficult. But, Bridget was just right. Not to mention, she was much more pleasant on the eyes than the other two.
I was beginning to suspect that Bridget felt the same way. She seemed a little more lively when I showed up, and she began to exert her own brand of humor to compliment my own. Work didin't feel like work when she was there. We began to learn a little about each other, and we began to talk.
Her boyfriend's name was Chris. He was a senior at Tilghman High School. And he was a football player. And he had a new Camaro.
One night, Bridget approached me when no one else was around. She said that Chris was going to a concert the next night. She wanted to know if I would like to hang out with her and Muffy. She wanted to know if I knew of a place that we could chill.
The idea took me by surprise, but it was a pleasant surprise. The idea of hanging out with Bridget away from work and away from Chris was rather appealing. I quickly rummaged through my head for a place that we could go.
"My friend just moved up by Chicago," I explained. "He lived in a mobile home way out in the country. It's empty now, and I know how to get inside."
"Ok. Let's go there," she said. She turned away and busied herself before I could elaborate. I was excited, but something told me that the subject, for some reason, was off-limits. All I knew was that we were supposed to meet at Dandy's Yogurt at 7pm the next night.
The next night couldn't come quickly enough. School dragged; and, later, once I'd finally gotten home, I sat twiddling my thumbs until seven o'clock rolled around.
At Dandy's, Bridget and Muffy were standing near the register talking to Patty when I came through the fire escape door across the hall. Most of the mall employees, I discovered, came and went through the fire escape doors; I enjoyed knowing about and using these "secret" corridors.
Bridget looked amazing. She was wearing make-up and some jeans that hypnotized me. Even Muffy had polished herself up. I felt out of place wearing some stone-washed jeans and a Snoopy tee-shirt. The comic-strip dog was wearing sunglasses, and the words "Cool On Demand" were written across the top. I wanted to run home and change.
"Everyone ready?" Muffy asked after we'd all gotten the formalities out of the way. Bridget and I nodded, so we said 'goodbye' to Patty and made our way back outside.
In the parking lot, Muffy insisted on driving. I told her I didn't mind since we were going to be in my neck of the woods, but she insisted. She drove a rather large Olds Cutlass; Bridget sat in the passenger seat; and, I relayed directions to where we were going from the back.
The mobile home sat on a remote hill surrounded by trees. Muffy parked the car and turned off the engine. The conversation died as silence seemed to permeate through the secluded place. We got out of the car and stood there for a moment. I suddenly felt this odd feeling like I hadn't chosen a good place, like they had something else in mind.
"If you all wanna go somewhere else, we can," I offered. They just shook their heads. "No, this is fine," Bridget said.
So, I led them to the back and demonstrated how the latch on the sliding door could be manipulated open. Inside, the place was empty; there weren't even chairs to sit on. The utilities were, of course, shut off. We hadn't brought anything with us, not even beer; so, once inside, we just sat on the living room floor. I felt an uncomfortable vibe that I couldn't quite put my finger on; I knew neither how to identify the awkward lapse of harmony nor how to disarm its oppressive occupation.
As the three of us sat blundering for conversation, I took note of the over-dressed girls. I wondered how late they wanted to stay here. The room was already quite dark as the sun had fallen beneath the tree line. Muffy was looking even more uncomfortable than I was, which was quite a feat. Why didn't we just leave?
"Well, I think I'm going to go ahead and take off. If you two don't mind, I'll just pick you two up early in the morning," Muffy declared.
What was this? She was leaving us to spend the night here? She looked perfectly serious. What would we do for an entire night? Muffy lived all the way in Ballard County; she was going to drive all the way here in the morning?
Before I could voice any questions or any concerns, Bridget responded, "that's fine."
Suddenly, I had an inclination. I'd be left alone. all night. with no way to leave. and no where to go. with Bridget. "Yeah, that's fine," I said casually.
"Ok, see you in the morning." Muffy jingled her keys as she pulled them out of her purse. She closed the sliding door behind her. I stood and watched out the front window as she climbed into her car, started it, and pulled away.
As the sound of her car faded into the distance, the last remnants of sunlight seemed to follow. Darkness claimed anything familiar and cast my field of vision into oblivion. We were alone. I turned to see how Bridget was faring.
"Hold me." Her meek voice emanated from somewhere in the blackness where she had been sitting.
I walked over to her, sat beside her, and put my arm around her. She leaned her head against my shoulder, and we stayed that way for some time, neither of us saying anything.
When, at last, her head lifted from my shoulder, I could feel her looking at me. I turned to meet her gaze; but, instead, I met her lips.
Kisses can spark; they can awaken a man from a dismal fatigue and inspire a vigor that just moments ago hadn't existed. But first kisses? They saturate and float and galvanize and chisel and hurt and heal every aspect of our being. I had kissed other girls before Bridget, but I hadn't really kissed them. I hadn't really kissed them. The entire universe was a fleeting idea next to the power of that momentous connection, and I never, ever wanted it to end.
After a wonderfully timeless moment, she pulled away to gauge my consent. Once she recognized that she most definitely had it, we began again. And so it went for a long, immeasurable time.
She laid down, and I followed her to the floor. Slowly, I unfastened one of the buttons on her shirt, searching her eyes for permission. She didn't object, so I continued the descending trek between kisses. When, finally, the only thing between me and adolescent conquest was a lacy, white bra that had a small ribbon in the middle.
I expertly reached behind her back and coolly prepared to unfasten the garment. "It fastens in the front," she whispered.
I reconfigured my position and tried, again, to detach what surely had to be a simple hook and loop mechanism. I pushed and pulled and pushed and twisted and yanked, hoping that the solution to the puzzle would reveal itself in the process. I didn't want to admit my ignorance, but the fucking thing just wouldn't unlatch.
She smiled at the hopeless endeavor. Mercifully, she demonstrated the technique but left herself covered.
Fancying myself a romantic, I patiently edged away the fabric between kissing and petting. When at last the secret was revealed, I cupped my first breast in the palm of my hand and bookmarked the taste of a girl.
And so the night went. The wee hours of morning were approaching, and our energy was beginning to fade. I laid next to her feeling a tragic desire to unleash the pinnacle of sentiments. Fortunately, I bridled that bitch and spoke, instead, of her.
"I don't understand," I began, treading carefully. "Are you and Chris still..."
"Yes," she whispered. She sounded sad. Just above her, a curtain-less window spilled moonlight onto her face. I drank every last drop.
"Does... does he hit you?" I asked her.
She paused for a moment to look at me. Slowly, she nodded. Slowly, I began to understand. I wrapped her up carefully, then. I placed her in my heart and decided that she would be safe there.
The silence was painful, and I began to say something else. She placed her index finger against my lips and shushed me. We laid there, just she and I, until a moonbeam peppered us with slumber.
The next morning, Muffy arrived as promised; the magic night was over.
The next few weeks were both heaven and hell. I called Bridget nearly every night. We'd talk for at least two hours, sometimes more. We talked about work and school. I would tell her about places that I wanted to take her like Eleven Point River and the Mad Dog Shack and the Pines. We would try and make plans to meet. Sometimes, rarely, we actually would. But, usually, she couldn't or wouldn't.
Muffy and Patty knew what was going on, but they kept our secret. We would carry on in the way that young lovers do. They just worked around us.
Bridget told me that she was going to be breaking up with Chris; she just needed to find the right time. Sometimes, she would toy with the idea of running away. Maybe move to Nashville and just stay there. I had told her that I would go with her if she ever wanted me to. I had meant it.
After a couple of months, we had a future together planned. All I had to do was be patient. She was going to break up with Chris. She was. She just needed to find the right time.
Sometimes, Chris would come in to Dandy's Yogurt to talk to Bridget. I sometimes felt like he knew something was up; but, if he did, he never let on that he did. I'd pay attention to how Bridget would talk to him; she was short and to the point. I was always happy when he left.
One night, Bridget and I were working alone. We were responsible for closing that night, and I was enjoying one of our rare times alone together. The time skipped by way too quickly, and I wished it would move slower. After the closing duties were completed and the register had been counted down, all we had left to do was lock up and leave.
Bridget zipped the bank bag containing the deposit, pushed back the office chair, and stood. We were in the back, and I was reaching to flip off the lights when she placed her hand on my arm. I turned, expecting her to say that we had forgotten something, but I was met with a kiss.
We embraced in another exciting, improvised caress. As my hands began creeping up her shirt, I began to wonder how far this might go. I pulled her closer and opened my eyes...
...and standing right behind her was Chris.
I didn't know how long he had been standing there, but I pulled away. Just a moment later, Bridget, too, saw him. He stood between us and the only exit.
"What are you doing!?!" Bridget started yelling at him. The only thing that I could think about was how she had told me that he hit her. I wasn't sure how I might slay this dragon if he decided to unleash a swiping blow to our mutual interest, but I knew that I would try. I mentally inventoried the cans of chocolate syrup and caramel sauce. If necessary, I could start chucking those at him. Also, a mop was within reach. It looked flimsy; but, if things got serious, I could jab at him with it.
But he didn't move. He just stared at us.
"I said, what are you doing!?! You can't be back here!" Bridget repeated. Yeah, get him with rules and regulations. Whatever worked.
Still, he didn't move.
An uncomfortable time elapsed. Bridget continued yelling at him, and I began to feel like I needed to give them some space. She needed to tell him about our plans and doing so with me standing there didn't seem optimal. I slipped past Bridget and slid by him.
I half-expected him to punch me when I walked by. He didn't, but he followed me to the other side of the counter. I turned around to face him.
What I saw in his eyes surprised me. He didn't look like a killer, or an abusive girlfriend-beater, or a bad ass. He looked hurt. He looked like he was about to cry.
I couldn't keep his gaze. I stepped backward, unsure what to do or what to say. I felt like an asshole at that moment. I wasn't supposed to be the villain; I was supposed to be the hero. I was supposed to be protecting her from this beast, but he didn't look like a beast right then. For the first time, the realization that I was the guy that had been messing around with his girlfriend struck me.
Bridget grabbed his arm and led him across the hallway into the fire escape. I considered for a moment to follow them, but decided against it. He had shown no signs of violence, and I needed to give them space for the moment.
I finished closing up the store. I locked the gate and stood there for a moment. I wondered if they had left.
I opened the fire escape door and started to enter the corridor when I saw them in there. They didn't see me.
I saw Bridget slap him. Not really hard, but hard enough. "You know I love you," she told him. "It was just a stupid mistake..."
I gently closed the door, wishing I could un-hear what I had just heard.
I walked through the mall, to another fire escape, and circled around to my car. I drove home trying to convince myself that she was just telling him whatever she needed to. The fact of the matter was that he knew about us now. Our secret was out, and choices needed to be made.
The next day at school, I didn't think 3 o'clock was ever going to come. I knew that Bridget was scheduled to work that afternoon, and I planned to go there after school.
I was doubting everything that day. She had told him that I was a mistake. She had told me that she was going to break up with him. Truth had lodged somewhere in all the deceit and was about to be forced out. I was ready and eager to claim my share of it.
I walked into Dandy's Yogurt suddenly unsure of how to act or what to say. I knew that I looked like an idiot, but I had spent the last few hours daydreaming that she was going to choose me. 'He's gone now. It's just you and I. No more hiding. No more pretending. It's just you and I now.'
"What are you doing here?" I heard her sarcastic voice before I saw her face. The words hurt and angered me. She knew that I'd be coming. She was as anxious to lose me as I had been to see her. When I saw her expression of sarcasm and disgust, I didn't recognize her. I was a fool. I was a stupid fucking idiot that had believed that lies were only in stories about spies and treachery. I wanted her to see how angry I was, how hurt I was; but, I just paused for a brief moment to assess her.
For a wonder, no one else was around. She defiantly looked at me, daring me to say something. I obviously should have known that this was all a ruse; I should have known when the show was over; I should have known that I was just a diversion.
I wanted to tell her how horrible she was, how cruel she was. I wanted to pretend like I wasn't even phased. But after I saw all that I needed to see, I turned around. I never said anything. Not a single word. I must have looked shamefully pathetic as I hung my head and walked away.
After I heard the fire escape door shut behind me, the tears came. I felt pretty certain that men weren't supposed to cry like that, but I did. I positioned myself so that the few people that I saw in the parking lot couldn't see my face; and, when I got in my car, I let it all go.
I started the car and drove away.
I drove all night that night. I drove all over southern Illinois, through old, gravelly back roads and along long stretches of highway. Just after midnight, a misty drizzle shrouded the world appropriately. I drove into Paducah, ambling through the lonely streets. At one point, I was driving on Broadway through the intervals of stop-and-go lights; a slow and steady haze sketched through the street lights like a flowing gossamer curtain. I was stopped at a red light that didn't want to change, but I didn't care. I just sat there. When it did turn, I didn't go. I let it turn red again, and I waited some more. I went after it had turned green a second time. Nobody cared.
I considered everything that night. Maybe tomorrow, I could go to work, and she would say that she was sorry. She was confused. She did love me, and everything would be fine again.
But I knew. Everything made sense now. Hindsight is 20/20.
But she said she was going to break up with him.
She said I wasn't like other guys.
We were going to go canoeing.
We talked all night.
She was supposed to be the one.
I cried more that night than I care to admit. I was a virgin to heartbreak, and I didn't know how to deal with it. Every song I heard on the radio reminded me of her, and I knew that I would never, ever, ever get her out of my head, out of my heart.
But eventually I did.
I didn't work at Dandy's Yogurt much longer after that. I got another job, but that's a story for another day. We didn't talk much when we had to work together. I kept my distance, and she kept hers. I pretended like everything was just fine.
She took longer to shake off than she should have, but that's because she was my first love. I didn't know it then, but she was.
And I don't even know for sure if it was love, but, instead, my ideal of love.
For love is stained glass. We are born with this perfect, unadulterated ideal of love. It is the perfect hue, for it is ours in every way. Light animates it and amplifies it, and we want to display it. It is beautiful.
Then, it shatters. We are introduced not to the image of love, but to a spectrum of emotion. Our glass falls and shatters into a thousand pieces, and we feel like we could never piece it together again.
The first time is the worst. We haven't a clue how to glue ourselves together again. How can we realign all of the pieces? What should we use to hold everything together? Some pieces are missing. Some pieces are gone forever.
But slowly and surely, we do. We borrow a piece from a friend. It's not the same color, but it will work. We use an adhesive that our parents used. We learn how their hearts are welded, and we try to mimic their technique. We shave pieces and cut them to fit.
And we walk around feeling like a broken toy. Paul Simon wrote, "losing love is like a window through your heart Everybody sees you're blown apart. Everybody hears the wind blow." That's how we feel.
And we break again. And again. And again and again and again. Until we start to learn how to fix it and guard against the agony with a sharp sense of humor or an angry demeanor or a stony ward of indifference.
Before long, we are a mosaic of glass. Stained glass. With a rainbow of colors so disparate and contrasting that we're certain that no one could ever love us again. It is so very different from the perfect hue that we're born with.
But, then one day, someone does. Someone comes along and loves how you've pieced yourself back together. They love how the blues are tangled into the yellows and the reds were pieced with the purples. So, you let them peek into the holes, into the cracks where they see you. Every little broken piece of you. And they don't mind that you're broken, because they're broken, too.
And if you overlap her shards with his gaps and you piece his cuts with her edges, you find an artwork that you never realized existed. And your ideal of love becomes so very silly. So very distant. Because, this is love.
Love isn't perfect. It is a mosaic of mistakes and fixes Of failures and successes. Of hearts and bones.
It is stained glass.
-- If you enjoyed this, try other Flashback episodes, starting with "Brookport"
-- Also, please like my Parenting with Lightsabers page on Facebook found here.
-- Or continue with some more Flashback episodes like "David Stories"
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