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And on it Goes
In kindergarten, you dumped sand on my head and called me an icky girl in the meanest voice you could. I ran to the teacher crying, and after a big hug and a reprimand to you she called my mom, sending me home to shower the gritty sand out of my hair. That day I decided you were my biggest enemy.
In first grade, we learned about addition and subtraction. You told me that I’d never learn how to add and subtract because I’m just a stupid girl. When I said you were stupider then me and had no brains because you were a boy, the teacher put me in time-out. You smirked in the way only a first-grader can.
In second grade, the class played a get-to-know-you game, which is when you thought you’d be mean and tell the class I wet the bed, when I didn’t. It backfired on you though- I hid in the bathroom and two girls came in and patted my back. These two girls became my best friends.
In third grade, the school put on a play- Romeo and Juliet. You were Romeo, and I was Juliet. We were both great at acting but we had to make “kissy faces” at each other, and you pretended to throw up.
In fourth grade, one of my best friends hit you for taunting me. She was sent to the Principal’s Office, but she said it was worth it and claimed you cried like a baby when her hand connected with your face.
In fifth grade, you tripped me, and while I fell you pulled down my skirt. Later you said it was an accident and you had only meant to grab me to pick me up, but I know better. You always jumped at opportunities to humiliate me.
In sixth grade, I got my period in the middle of class. You screamed “Lily got her period!” at the top of your lungs, and everyone stared at me while the teacher pulled me to the bathroom. They cleaned the chair and put it back in the room, but you always made faces and claimed you were obviously sitting in my old chair because it smells like blood.
In middle school, you and my best friend starting “going out.” That basically meant you sat with each other during lunch and played games during recess. This meant we had to see each other every day, and I hated school because of it.
In ninth grade, we were partners for the year. Every project we were assigned together as a team, and so we slowly got over our hatred. We even learned some things about each other.
In tenth grade, you broke up with my best friend. You said high school dating was more of a commitment then middle school dating, and it broke my friend’s heart. She cried for days, and I sat with her every evening to make sure she was okay before I went home.
In eleventh grade, you asked me on a date. I was reluctant to go, because of our mutual history of hatred, but I finally gave in after much persuasion on his part. We saw a movie, and in the darkness you held my hand.
In twelfth grade, I was diagnosed with a cancer that had a low survival rate. I missed graduation because I was in the hospital. During my eighth week there you walked in wearing full-body scrubs to keep germs out of my room and knelt to the ground in front of my hospital bed. You told me that if you don’t have much time left with me, you want to make it count, and you pulled out a ring.
You only had a few more years, but we did make it count. And though you won’t have me there with you to kiss away your nightmares and be your valentine, love lasts forever, and I’ll live on in the life of our daughter.
I love you Michael.