background.

It's been sixteen years, so the details are not all perfectly clear.  I also only remember the things that happened from my point of view.  I try to remember everything as much as I can from an outside point of view, but I know that's impossible because I am one half of the story.  The more I can remember, the easier this will be to work out.

I remember a boy from my sophomore year of high school.  He was quiet.  He seemed nice, but he was really quiet and shy.  He wasn't in my group of friends, and I didn't really know what group of friends he was in at all.  But he was nice to me.  When I started conversations, he always kept up and he offered to do things like carry my books to my locker, or carry my clarinet case.

I didn't really get to know him much, if at all.  I just knew there was a boy, who was quiet and nice.  It wasn't that I didn't notice him, it was just that I didn't know him.

He remembers that he got a stomach virus.  He missed 2 weeks of school and lost a lot of weight.  He remembers that I didn't notice him at all until he came back "skinny" and that I didn't pay him any attention until after the stomach virus.  I can't say that I paid attention to him because he was skinnier than he used to be.  I just know that I didn't see him for a little while, and then he was there again.  He wasn't AS quiet and shy, but he was still the same nice, thoughtful boy who sometime carried my books and clarinet case.

He doesn't remember that we went to junior prom together.  I remember my dress (it was my favorite), an a-line ball gown type dress that I remember begging my mom to get for me.  It wasn't a dress that we could reasonably afford, but she saw how much I loved the dress, and my parents bought it for me.  I remember how elegant the material felt, and I remember the detailed black beading across the bodice.  I remember the sheer top layer of the dress being black, and the layer underneath being a shimmery blue-green, making the dress look like different hues of gray-blue under different lights.  I remember the picture, I remember the corsage, I remember it all.

We both remember senior prom.  My parents bought me another expensive dress that was way too much for a high school dance, but so beautiful.  It was white, with a top layer of beading from the straps of the dress, all the way down to the ankles.  The details of the dress aren't important.  He came to pick me up with a corsage of white flowers.  We took pictures with my parents and my little sister.  We went to dinner at Alexander's, which is now Kitchen Bar.  We went to the prom, we took a picture there.  One thing that should be in both our memories is taking pictures with his family, his parents.  We didn't do that.  I am sure that was because of me, but I can't clearly remember the reason, I just know there are no pictures of all of us together.  Maybe this was the beginning of all the problems, or maybe it was far before this.

Graduation was more of the same.  Pictures of me and him.  Pictures of us with my parents.  No pictures of us with his family.  He remembers his parents being upset that he ran off during graduation to be with his girlfriend and her family.  I vaguely remember him telling me they were upset, and I  vaguely remember arguing that they should've taken pictures with us, no one was stopping them.

If I could crawl into his brain, into his memories, and see what he saw and remembered, I would probably feel more bad, more sorry.  But because I only have my memories, I can only remember what the immature, thoughtless, careless, teenage me saw and experienced that year.  By the prom, we were already boyfriend and girlfriend, and I was already a horrible selfish and self-absorbed person, 17 years in the making.

I'm sure there were lots more instances where I excluded his family, or just didn't think about them at all because I thought they had nothing to do with me.  I'm sure it hurt him then, and I was too engrossed in myself to notice.

Even writing this introduction to the beginning of us, I have realized and recognized more things about myself that are terrible.  Who knows how far along I get with this before I give up on the happiness part, and just be satisfied with the meeting again?  Maybe I will just accept that meeting again ends in apologizing and letting go, letting be.

We begin the story by acknowledging that I was a selfish kid, and he was not.  He was giving, caring, loving, and thoughtful, and more mature than I could be, even now.

refresh.

There are so many conflicted thoughts in my brain that I needed somewhere to work them out.  The title of the blog "retrovailles" means: the happiness of meeting again after a long time.  It isn't how the stories of this blog begin, nor is it definitely the way this story will end.  Rather, it is what I hope will become of the story that is in my heart.  Happiness is a feeling that has been present, meeting after a long time is also the truth.  Now if only the two of those things would join together, we will have achieved what the heart and brain so desperately want.  I am embarking on this journey, without knowing who I am traveling with, and without knowing if I will ever come back.  Here I go.