You

I don't really know you.
I know how beautifully you've written down your thoughts.

I don't really know you, but I call you a friend.
Your encouragement started me on this path - to write these "memories."

I don't really know you, but I love you.
Soul to soul, with no other reason than we are alive on this planet.

I don't really know you, but I am thankful for you.
Thank you for being there to find.

You know who you are.

Spoiler

It was the Christmas I insisted on no girl presents for me. I wanted only things that a boy would like. I just wanted you to get the message to Santa. He'd been leaving me girl stuff forever and I was sick of it.

My sister was taking her nap when you whispered for me to follow you to a small closet at the back of the house. Inside there were dolls, some dresses and a toy both my sister and I had gone nuts for after seeing it on TV. It was the Flintstone's Dino, the perky purple dinosaur with the baby blue eyes. That toy was a jumbo sized, battery powered, walking, talking, little kid's wet dream. As I reached for it you said, "Oh no! These toys are for your sister. Do you think she'll like them?" I was confused - her birthday was in May and it was December.

And just like that - you spoiled Christmas.
At least you honored my request for boy toys.

You really should have known I could not keep a secret.
I didn't tell her she was getting Dino.
I told her there was no Santa.

The chair

Remember that night at dinner when my sister and I were fighting about which chair we were going to sit in? You got mad and said "what does it matter which chair you sit in?" I answered "neither of us wants to sit by you!"

I would give anything to be able to sit next to you now.

Be happy

I used to say you were crazy, that you were verbally abusive, that you hated sex, that you treated me like your slave, that you threatened me with a steak knife.

It made it easier to accept what I put you through. I realize the ending was abrupt for you, but once I realized I could end our marriage, I was on-board.

You must see it now - we were too young. On my end, I was in love with the idea of being in love. When we were in High School I loved being your girlfriend. I loved hanging out with you listening to music. I loved going on ski trips with you and driving trips to Kansas and laughing together about how funny all our relatives were. I did not know what being in love meant. I knew the cheerleaders all had crushes on you.

I wanted to get married because we'd had sex. My mother had told me only engaged couples should have sex. You had free will. You could have said no. It was obvious when we walked back down the aisle and you were crying that you were having second thoughts.

We were married for less than 2 years. I don't remember us being "happily" married for any of it. So here I am, 34 years later telling you - sorry. Sorry for making you miserable. Sorry for how horrible I was at the end. Sorry for being unfaithful and hurtful. Sorry for making you feel you needed to take all our money and the car and my motorcycle. Sorry for making you feel so angry that you called my father in an attempt to get him to commit me. Sorry for being such a horrid person that your family erased me from their lives. Sorry it took years for you to let go and move on. I'm sorry I spent most of my 20's looking over my shoulder and expecting you to be following me.

If you are reading this - be happy I left.

Cilantro

The taste of cilantro equals guilt.
Even the smell of it makes me feel sick.

I'd never had cilantro before your wife put it into the salad she served that night. Everything else about that night, even down to the stolen kiss in the kitchen - been there, done that. But I'd never had a wife catch me kissing her husband. And having her then tell my husband, well you get the picture. Guilt.

Somehow we all got past the scene. We stayed friends, or at least my husband, you and I did. Your wife did not come to your performances and we never again came to your house for dinner. I drove by that house a few months ago. It was inspiration for my very first entry. But my main memory of that house is not the night we ate cilantro, it's the night you and I... well, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Your musical comedy group was a local favorite. My husband and I were musicians then. It was more of a hobby for us, but we went out every week to drink and enjoy music and comedy and everything else the bay area in the 70's had to offer.

We made friends with all the guys in your group, but we were closest to you. And you and I? We had something else going on. Denial was our game. We were loosing. That night, before the kiss in kitchen, you were playing songs on your piano and singing. I sang along with you - a harmony you'd never considered. You asked if I would get up on stage and sing it the next time I was in the audience. Duh.

Your group was girl bait. Dozens would pack themselves into the front rows just to be close to you. You were the main writer for the group and even through you did not sing that love song in performances, everyone knew it was your song. Sad and sweet. The only non-humor song in your set. The night I sang it for the first time was heaven. I was the only girl who ever sang with your group. The front row girls wanted to hate me, but I was them when I sang. I belted how it felt to be near you. It was electric.

I was invited up to sing that song every performance after that. I never tired of it. But the denial game was getting harder and harder to play. I found myself standing close to you near my car at the end of a night, heart pounding, body weak. It started with touch. A spark flew between us when our skin met. We even looked alike with our thin, heart-shaped faces and sharp noses. The day I cut my long curls off, I walked into the club to find you'd just cut your long curls off as well. Secret smiles. Longing looks. We were smitten. Well, I'll admit I was.

When your group recorded it's first album, my husband was your recording engineer. I was the artist who did your album. I traveled with your band by car up to Santa Rosa for the photo shoot. We sat so close, and you held my hand. It was so much more to me than flirting. It felt bigger. It felt like fate.

When my husband and I broke up, it was not over you. He knew you and I were close, but he while he was ok with it, your wife was not. You and I had done nothing more than steal a kiss or too, but she, unlike my husband, she could see the depths of emotion behind it.

There were other men in my life by then and unlike you, I was newly separated and free. When she called suggesting we get together, I was open to becoming friends with her. I cared enough for you to want you to be happy. Maybe my becoming friends with her, I could let go of the huge crush I had on you. When she showed up at my door, her agenda was not to be friends. We were at war. I was to stay away from you. It seems when you traveled with the band, you were allowed to sleep with anyone girl you met on the road. You were allowed this as long as you never kept in contact with them or slept with the same girl twice. Her story was bizarre, but it was clear I was a threat to the balance that kept you two together.

I felt ambushed. And her words had the opposite effect from her intention. Game on.

Months passed, and I found myself at a fourth of July party a bit out of control. Drugs of the day were pot and cocaine. The later was new to me. I was buzzed when I came home to find your message on my machine. "Deb, I am home alone and want to see you. Will you come over?" Duh

You, my friend, were wasted. The bottle on the piano was almost empty and your words were coming out sideways. But this was a moment I'd dreamed of. I was alone with you. I'm not sure I'd call what we had "sex." It wasn't really possible with the two directions we found ourselves in. At the time, it was all a delightful turn of events. It brought me to the place where I knew in my heart I wanted you as a friend and not a lover.

I gathered my things and was headed out the door when you said,"I had sex with you, so now I can never talk to you again."

I laughed it off. I thought it was the booze talking. I was in the audience at your next performance, but when the love song was played I was not invited to come on stage. Not only would you not acknowledge my existence, but the entire band seemed to look right through me. Maybe your wife's words had been a warning for me.

My (ex)husband became a regular guest performer with your band. He got to be the friend I had wanted to be until you moved away. Has it really been 26 years? When I drove past your house, it felt like I'd been there the night before.

I could still taste the cilantro.

Heart and soul

Sometime at the start of Junior High, we became friends.

Thrown together by a love of music, Jewish fathers, Presbyterian Sunday school - we were a team. You were the accompanist for the choir. I sang lead soprano. We both played flute in the school band. You were the only kid I knew with a piano in her room. I had always wanted to play piano, but even in my wildest dreams I would never would have equaled your talent. It was like music just gushed from your fingers through the keys and filled the room. You humored me - letting me play the easy part of piano duets.

Years we spent - you on the keyboard and me singing. All our spending money went toward sheet music. We performed at church, at Lion's Club meetings, at Rotary Club meetings. If there was a meeting that needed entertainment - we were there.

Boys came and went, but you were a constant. My love for you was fierce. We shared our teens together.

When I began dating the guy I later married, you did not approve. Perhaps it was the hormones - mine seemed to bloom before yours. What was driving me was not yet driving you. That afternoon, in your family's basement we were sitting on the couch talking when I saw the fear in your eyes. You thought you were losing me to him. And in that moment I wanted to do something to show how I felt about you. I wanted to kiss you.

My body was on auto-pilot. My face was aready leaning towards your's when I stopped myself. This was a side of me I'd never shared. What if you did not like me? What if you did? In that moment I knew things would never be the same for us. Instead of kissing you, I took a deep breath and told you I wanted to kiss you.

The phrase "bum's rush" comes to mind when I remember how quickly you got me to leave. We never talked about it. Which meant I never got to deal with the pain I felt. I was more like you than anyone in my world, now I was like no one. And worse, I disgusted you. We continued performing together. We were still in every music and drama group. But the distance that afternoon created only grew larger. And my life continued on it's chaotic path.

I locked that part of me away for a long time.

FBF

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours"

You should not feel bad. I started it. I just wanted to know what all the fuss was about. I knew my father had expected me to be born a boy. I should have been a boy. At the age of six it seemed so simple. I would become a boy. First step was seeing what you had that I didn't.

We locked ourselves in your family's bathroom and I went first. I pulled down my shorts, sat on the toilet - and peed. You watched. Your turn - you opened your zipper, faced the toilet - and peed standing up. I was instantly jealous. You showed me you had a little flesh hose you shot pee out of. What happened to my hose? Did my parents have it removed? Would I grow one? Was this what was so wonderful about being a boy?

I taught myself to pee standing up.
I climbed every tree I could find.
I dug in the dirt.
I collected bugs and snakes and lizards.
I jumped off everything.
But I could not grow a flesh hose no matter how much I wanted one.

My parents and your's called you a "book worm." Ridiculous! I read more books than you! They called me "tom boy." Who was Tom and what did he have to do with my wanting to be a boy? I was supposed to be named Paul. That was the name my parents had decided on if I was a boy. Why wasn't I named Paula?

In the sticky Kansas summers, all our moms would push us outside telling us to, "go play." Your house was always my first stop. You were my friend and a boy, but not my boyfriend. I was much more interested in the pretty girl that lived behind your house. You could not understand why I was interested in her. I guess I wasn't sure either. As a boy, I thought you'd think she was pretty.

I was devastated when I was not invited to her birthday party. You were."Go play" put me outside that day with no one to play with and too much free time. I snuck through your yard to spy on the party. She was wearing the most beautiful white dress I had ever seen. Her hair was all pins and curls with ribbons. Her shoes were shiny with buckles. There was a cake on the table and piles of presents. I was jealous of her and you and everyone at that party for getting to eat that cake.

She saw me in my dirty play clothes hiding in the bushes. She sent a group of boys after me. As a kid I told my mother they took off their belts to hit me, but I'm sure they just chased me. And threw rocks. I thought my mom would be proud I'd gotten away from them, but she was angry. I'd embarrassed her. "Debbie, tell me why you were spying on girl and her party?" I knew girls were not supposed to like girls. And like it or not, I was a girl.

You never told my secrets.
You never acted like I was a freak.
You were my first best friend.