We sat on the edge of the bed, side by side, our shoulders touching, not looking at each other. He had pulled me upstairs after telling me we needed to talk. I can still remember the darkness of the bedroom, the clutter in the closet, the smell of incense and the give of the old mattress.
I don't think we should go, he said. You're in college and have a good job. I just got started in a new band. Maybe moving to California isn't such a good idea. Not now anyway.
My shoulders curled, my hands went slack. I continued to stare straight ahead, scanning the clothes, hanging and piled on the floor of the closet, wondering if I was going to be able to reinstate myself into the University, when I heard a voice, just over my right shoulder. The voice said, "You can go anyway." It was a voice as clear as any voice I had ever heard. And I've never heard it again.
I straightened my back and clinched my fists. I turned to look at him. I can go anyway, I said.
Six months later I was on a train, by myself, at the age of twenty-three moving across country, from Maryland to California. I had with me what I could carry. I wasn't sure where I was going to end up. I had narrowed it to San Francisco or San Diego. I had never been to either and thought I would figure it out once I got there. It was 1977 and Northern California was experiencing a drought so I decided not to further burden the limited water supply and moved to San Diego. I was young. I thought I was helping.
I moved into a studio apartment in downtown San Diego, just blocks from Balboa Park. I enrolled in nursing school in the Community College and got a couple of part time jobs. I did okay. I paid my bills. Walked and took the bus everywhere I had to go. Sometimes I could treat myself to lunch at the local natural foods store, sometimes I crawled around on my closet floor looking for change to take the bus to work. I ate cold cereal for breakfast every day and crackers and cheese and avocado for dinner. I did okay.
And missed him. I missed him bad. I cried myself to sleep some nights and held myself in a bear hug with the ache of missing him. He was my first love. My only love. We had known each other since we were 12, had been lovers since we were 17, and had lived together for four years. When he called we both cried. How could you have left me, he asked. I didn't leave you, I said. I just left.
A few months after my move he proposed to me over the phone. I said yes. Come home, he pleaded. Move to California, I replied.
And, eventually he did. With another woman. Just a friend, he said. They both wanted to move to California and decided to do it together. But not to San Diego, to San Francisco.
Come to San Francisco, he pleaded. I want you to meet her. You'll like her. So I did. I took the train. They met me at the station and took me around the city. We walked for miles. She and I talked. She was shy and kind; maybe overly kind. Maybe overly shy.
I don't remember what street we were on, or what time of day it was, just that it was day. The sun was shining hot and bright. He and I were in the middle of some city block. She was a few steps behind us. He said from just over my right shoulder, I'm in love with her. It was a voice that shot through me with a pain like no voice ever had before and never has since. I didn't say anything. I couldn't find my breath or my voice. I gasped and ran. I don't know where I thought I was running to or what I thought I would do when I got there. I just had to run away from that voice. I'm in love with her, he said.
How could this be? He was my other half. He was my first love. How would I survive this?
By forgiving him.
She and I became good friends. I invited her to visit me in San Diego. We stayed in my studio apartment and I showed her the town. We spent hours in Balboa Park, talking about him and life and who we were and thought we might be one day. And he was right. I liked her.
Forty years later they are no longer together. He is happily with someone else and I am too. We still reach for each other across whatever miles that lie between us. I met him in San Francisco after his divorce and we talked for hours. I called him when I was having trouble with my marriage and he promised to rescue me if I needed rescuing. I can't imagine not always knowing where he is. We have known each other since we were 12. He was my first love. He was my first heartbreak. He was the first person I ever had to truly forgive. And I can't imagine now, having not.
Earlier on Huff/Post50: