Robert wasn't all that special now that I reflect back on him. He was an average-sized four year old, with mouse-brown hair, olive skin and dark-brown eyebrows. We met...well, not actually met...we were in close proximity to each other (which to me was more than enough) in 1987. We went to preschool together. He sat a few tables behind me. We were going to get married. Yes, I was only four. No, I didn't understand that marriage was less of a fuzzy, satiated gasp and more of a partnership/comittemnt type thing. All I really knew was that when he passed by I felt like the fairy tales that had been read to me, a panging magical eagerness, a muted electric surge. It fascinated me so! (And still does). Everyday, upon returning from school, I'd grab the nearest writing utensil and a clean piece of paper. I'd sit down at the kitchen table and with all my focus I'd summon the feelings that Robert erupted in me. My palms would be moist and the pen or pencil would slip sloppily from my hand as I tried to conjure the momentum. I was afraid: he may not feel the same; what if I completed one of these letters and gave it to him and he just laughed? It didn't matter. I needed him to know what brewed within me. I needed to know if he could lull it. Again and again I'd re-grab my utensil, until eventually it became an extension of myself, an extra finger that could expel the passion. The words would eventually come, slowly, earnestly. My plans for us I'd describe, along with my analysis of his beauty. * I was in a romantically charged zone, one that wouldn't end 'till I got every morsel of feeling out.
*The detail in the letter was actually not that thorough, or so I figure. It was probably just words with hearts and what have you. Remember, I was only four.
*The detail in the letter was actually not that thorough, or so I figure. It was probably just words with hearts and what have you. Remember, I was only four.
