First Dance

There’s a picture that has lived among the clutter on my desk for a while now.  I was three.  It was probably the first time I danced with a girl, and I wish I kept in touch with her.  As you grow old, you realize what you didn’t realize when you were young.  Not that I could have had much control over it, but I wish I knew her better.  Back to the picture.  It was taken at our Church on Halloween.  I’m pretty sure she was a witch, and I was Earnie in one of those plastic smock costumes with the cheap mask.  As long as I got candy, right?  It’s a picture of us dancing together.  Innocent.  Young.  I had the same goofy smile I got when dancing with a girl in high school at age three.  The concept that guys really grow up is a misnomer.  We just get better at hiding our nervousness.  You look back at life, and wonder what it would be like if that first girl you danced with at age 3 was the one you grew up to love.  If that’s how it worked, I think there would be a lot more innocence in the world.  You find them early and you learn together.  That’s what love should be like.  You may still hurt at times, but they know why, sometimes even before you do.  Instead, we dance, we leave, we grow up.  Rarely do you come back together the same way that you left.  You’re different people growing at different rates.  Sometimes those rates take you so far apart that you have to agree to just rely on the memories.  More on her later.  Now I just wish I was the little boy smiling in the cheap costume holding the witch’s hand.

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