I was not quite ten when I fell in love for the first time.
We were visiting my grandparents in Miami, where they kept a mountain of old Reader’s Digests. It was in their yellowed pages that I met her.
She was a twelve-year-old Catholic girl from a small Quebec town. My heart melted when I saw her. She had sandy hair and wore glasses. She was adorable, and I fell hopelessly in love.
Hopelessly.
My love would never be, could never be, reciprocated. She had died of leukemia.
Forty-five years later, the thought of her still breaks my heart.
[Written for the Valentine’s Day Special over at the 100 Word Stories Podcast.]
We were visiting my grandparents in Miami, where they kept a mountain of old Reader’s Digests. It was in their yellowed pages that I met her.
She was a twelve-year-old Catholic girl from a small Quebec town. My heart melted when I saw her. She had sandy hair and wore glasses. She was adorable, and I fell hopelessly in love.
Hopelessly.
My love would never be, could never be, reciprocated. She had died of leukemia.
Forty-five years later, the thought of her still breaks my heart.
[Written for the Valentine’s Day Special over at the 100 Word Stories Podcast.]
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