Sarah

I was five years old when I told my mom that I had found my future wife. Her name was Sarah Freeman and she had shiny forehead that extended back to the top of her head. During preschool nap time I'd lay awake thinking of all the ways I could get her attention. But no matter how hard I tried, its seemed there was nothing I could do to satisfy my blossoming romantic inclinations. She, with her button face and disheveled brown hair, was way out of my league. She never spoke to me. In fact, she never spoke to anyone. Its hard, I learned, to have a crush on someone who would rather eat grass alone in the corner of the playground than watch me act out the closing scenes of the latest Ninja Turtles episode. Sarah's silence and grass habit should have been clear indications that a marriage would simply not work. Crushed, I refused to listen as my mom explained that a marriage is for people who are in love. It occurs between adults. When you're older. Much, much older. It was then I declared that I hated love.

That night in the dark while kicking the sheets off my bed, I imagined Sarah and I wondered when she'd notice me. People liked me. My mom liked me, my dad liked me and even Ellie, our bovine dog liked me. Unable to sleep, I slide down to my feet and tip toed to the door. A burst of light turned my world white. Everyone was still awake, except for me! I peered down the hallway. I could hear the mumble of the evening news from downstairs. Someone was listening to Billy Joel behind a closed door holding a sign that read "2 legit 2 quit." Suddenly, the bright lights became heavy against my eyes and had an urge to lay down. So I did. Right there in the middle of the hallway.

It wasn't the first time I woke up in my big brother's arms. In the past year I developed a habit of crawling into his bed when I couldn't sleep in mine and he was still downstairs doing homework. His room was bigger and the floor was cleaner. His pillows were softer, his sheets crispier. I never had a problem drifting away when nestled in the grand expanse of his bedroom. His fifteen year old arms picked me up from the hallway floor, carried me into my room and laid me down with ease. As he clicked the door shut, I dreamily thought of Sarah and her forehead and my mom's words. I hate love, I mumbled. Maybe Sarah did, too. And for a moment, I was at peace.