First Love

By Jessica Lake

Below is an early memory that I have uplifted into a fable—with not so much as a moral as an inescapable verdict.

When I was in first grade, I loved a girl.

Her name was Fay Heft.

I told her, “I will love you forever.” And to sweeten the deal, I gave her a toy ring. She was overjoyed. At that tender age, I was still a good catch.

She showed it off to her friends. Later, those same friends came begging to me.

“Pretty please, with icing on it. Please, may I have a toy ring as well?”

So, I gave them toy rings as well.

Later, Fay came to me in tears—gushing words between wretched sobs.

Was there a problem?

“With this ring,” then a wretched sob, “you said you loved me—only me—forever.” A lengthy moan followed. “Now I see other girls with the same ring,” this was followed by a soaring wail. “Do you love them too?” A direct stab to my heart. “Are your words worthless?”

And finally she had gotten the whole offense out.

“I did not lie, my love,” I said earnestly. “My words are true. That selfsame ring on your finger is a symbol of our love. Yours was given freely by me. Those other rings are merely a symbol of kindness—and nothing more.”

“I don’t never want to speak to you again.”

Her chest rose and fell with a final, cleansing sob. And with that unshakable dismissal, she walked—mostly—out of my life forever.

On that day I learned that what makes total sense to me, others may find hurtful.

That makes me dangerous.

Dangerous enough to break a girl’s heart.