The Early Lessons

I was fourteen. He was seventeen. His name was Mike. From Church, yes....but that label barely scratches the surface of what he was to me. Those afternoons and evenings at St. Luke’s weren’t just about hymns and ministry; they were about law and order, constitutional debates that somehow felt like survival training for our young hearts. He took me places I wasn’t ready to see, but needed to see, he opened doors, not just physically, but in ways no one else could.

My grandmother, bless her...somehow knew what was going on. The details, the moments spent in secret, the first time I realized that my body and heart could be a revolution of their own. I remember the sting of her disappointment, but also the thrill of knowing I had tasted something that felt like forever, even if it wasn’t meant to last. Mike and I, we laid down our own law, learned each other’s limits, our desires, our dreams. I think... I hope....I was his first, just like he was mine.

Then came the military. And with it, silence. No letters, no phone calls, no shared moments. Four years. Four years in which the world moved on without us. Four years that carried him to someone else, someone real, someone his own age in a different season of life. But that’s another story, isn’t it?

–Leata