She Became an Afterthought (On Retrospection)

When I first transitioned from Armenian school to public school in the second grade there was young girl who was the first to be nice to me, helping ease the culture shock of my new environment and going so far as to defend me when another student accused me of being the child of communists.

By the third grade I had a developed a crush on her, which in turn limited my ability to interact with her.

Throughout the years our apartment was used as storage for a lot of strange objects related to my father's work. Usually they were paintings by such artists as Basquiat, Pollack and Warhol; but could vary based on circumstance. 

During this time one such variance was a large brass door that once belonged to a bank.  It was purchased for its intricate reliefs that ran throughout its length and for over a year it was left resting on its side in our hallway.

One day I was playing in my room with marbles, when one rolled under the bedroom door and into the small area between the brass door and wall it leaned against. My attempt to retrieve the marble was met with failure, with the door slamming its full weight on my right wrist.

The subsequent trip to Children's Hospital revealed that I had both fractured the bone and chipped the joint of my wrist, requiring a cast to be worn for at least six weeks.

Having never broken anything before, I was excited about the prospect of getting a cast. I liked the idea of people signing it.

Being right handed, I was unable to write during this time, and my teacher, Ms. Santos, in her infinite wisdom assigned the object of my crush to assist me, requiring a shuffling of seats so that she may sit next to me.

In my excitement I immediately began constructing scenarios that would eventually leading to holding hands or perhaps even a kiss. 

At first she happily assisted me, perhaps out of pity for my condition; but as time wore on she became visibly annoyed, eventually asking to be replaced. And though I should not have, I took annoyance as a personal rejection and began to distance myself accordingly.

The following year she enrolled at another school.

I would see her on occasion the following years; usually after class had let out as she waited for her parents to pick her up from the bus stop. I would sometimes say hello, doing so less as our paths diverged, eventually moving on to different schools and never seeing her again. 

She became an afterthought.

I recognize the ridiculousness of having a crush at eight years old. The social dynamics of that age are a strange and humorous thing, not at all grounded in reality (at least for me). Those expectations I held and the fantasies I constructed are a source of bittersweet amusement.

When my mind wanders to that time there is a vague reconstruction of what she looked like; curly hair, green eyes, a kind smile, but not much more. I wonder where her life has taken her, what she has accomplished, and who she has became. 

I imagine if I were inclined it would be easy to discover the answer to those questions; but I believe that defeats the purpose. 

She is the barely audible echo from a shared past, a player in an anecdote told in passing, a phantasm of recollection from that slowly dying memory of youth.