decry

We met when I was fifteen, Frank was ten and unknowingly involved. Frank had dropped his ice cream and was complaining, and I was fumbling through my backpack for some change when Johnny came up and offered to pay for another cone. I agreed and then he picked me up the next day to take me to the movies.

The first time we kissed was three weeks later. We just finished dinner at Ruby's and my breath smelled like garlic. He laughed before he leaned in to my hair. I could see the strands quiver under his breath. It was soft, gentle and I don't remember anything but it tasting sweet.

The day he lowered himself on one knee I said, "Absolutely Johnny dear," in a heart beat. The ring was small but he had worked all summer for this falling-leaf proposal. I remember the crisp crackle underneath our shoes and our backs. The leaves were so soft and sweet.

We got married on the beach because it felt more open-minded. Our parents objected the whole time, up to the actual ceremony when the pastor pronounced us man and wife. For that moment, they paused, split-second respect, until the reception where they again shared their grievances.

It's typical when you marry young to expect failure. It's typical to be reminded you'll meet failure. Repeatedly, so we don't believe. When Johnny and I used to go to the beach, we run our fingers through the muddy sand. Sometimes I wonder, when the marks we'd drawn washed away, if they thought this is how we'd end. But Johnny always knew, it's always forever. Even if we aren't physically here anymore. Soul mates are forever.