NOTE: This entry is part of my "Personification Series" where I personify the days of the week into people.

“Final boarding call for Flight 623 to Chicago O'Hare International Airport at gate H8.”

Galvin sighed, shifting his weight to his other foot. “I'll say hello again soon.”

“Thirty-three days,” I reported, optimistically.

Galvin took off his cap and plopped it on my head. “Collateral,” he said. “I expect it back.”

“In thirty-three days.” I nodded.

“Plus interest.” He winked.

A smile slowly spread across my lips. I reached down to grab my bag when he scooped me up into a final hug. “I really do love you,” he whispered.

“Thirty-three days,” I choked out, my lips centimeters from his ear. Goodbyes never got easier.

He released his grip slowly and gave me farewell kiss. He stood firmly planted in that one spot, with a reassuring nod as I handed my boarding pass to the attendant.

Before I disappeared through the terminal. I looked over my shoulder and saw him in that black t-shirt that hung from his broad shoulders, and he ran his arm through his hair before he waved farewell with a half smile.
​
Thirty-three more days.

 Despite anything that I’ve said or that’s ever been said about us, there wasn’t a moment when I didn’t love him. Even later, when things… unraveled, there was still a tiny frayed thread of love in me, even though I have never admitted it until now. I guess it’s true when they say that you’ll never forget your first love, because I never forgot him—and Lord knows I’ve tried! I mean, how can you forget about someone who helped pave the winding path that led to who you are today, when a memory of that person appears on a large, flashy billboard every fifty miles?

You can’t.

Sure, one day you’ll come to a fork in the road and you can choose the scenic, middle-of-nowhere, rural country road, versus the city strip that’s lined with reminders of days gone by. Despite the choice, you can’t avoid sighing nostalgically at a memory that plays on the radio or accidentally letting your mind wonder about the days that could have been. I’ve finally learned to sit back and enjoy the ride; what’s coming will come and it’s best to put the rocky and (sometimes) brittle path behind you and realize that you’ve survived it.

You survived those fifteen jobless months, you survived finals week, you survived through a year of marriage (or a sketchy divorce), you survived that car crash, you survived through winter depression, you survived that calculus exam, you survived raising six children by yourself. Yes, you survived.

Where does that survival theme stem from? As children our mission was to have fun, play hide-n-go-seek, win at dodge ball, recruit the recess field to play kickball… and then came high school. Survival is the key word many people use when they talk about their high school years. “I survived it and that’s all that’s important,” is the story I’ve heard too many times from too many people.

So there’s our culprit: those four years where we change from the thirteen year old adolescent to the legal eighteen year old ready to move away from home and, at the same time, we struggle to keep our heads above water in both academic and social standing.

Yeah, I survived high school: the bullies, the peer pressure, the hierarchy of beauty and the teenage, hormone-raging drama, but I lived it too.

​I also learned a lot about life, love, and myself. Being a teenager in high school is downright exhausting and difficult, but it’s also the last hurrah of adolescence and it should be celebrated! That is why I chose to start my story there—in those precious, fragile years where we begin to learn about the future through our past and present.

While cleaning out some boxes at my mother's house, I came across this fictional biographical paper I wrote back in high school (circa 2001) and wanted to share it with you.

Do you remember being fifteen? I loved that age. Though I was still too young to drink, drive a car, or even leave my parent's house without permission, I remember fifteen being a year where I had a lot of fun and spent a lot of time with friends... especially going to concerts.

At that age my best friend lived on the other side of the country. I was visiting her that summer. I spent two weeks with her and dreaded having to say good bye.

As we sat in LAX waiting for my plane to board I swore I saw someone famous walk by us hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. "What if he's on your plane?" my best friend asked. 

That question hung in my mind, beginning to spin webs of possibilities as I said a teary-eyed goodbye to my bestie. Drying my eyes with a tissue, I took my seat by the window and began thinking about sitting next to a celebrity. I pulled out my notebook and spent the remainder of the flight writing what would (much, much, MUCH) later become the first book in my "Song for You" series.

The main characters, Christie and Galvin, grew up with me. No matter what writing project I was working on, they always crept up to the foreground.

I spent much of my adolescence writing stories, poems, letters, ANYTHING I could come up with. I wanted to be a writer. Not a teacher. Not an office worker. Not a nurse or doctor. A WRITER. 

During those formative years in college, I changed my major five times, but kept coming back to writing. Christie and Galvin wanted their story told. They were relentless. That's when Book 2 happened. Many writing assignments revolved around those two characters, and the bones of the second book were born.

Then life happened. Having a degree in creative writing did not make me a desirable candidate for any job. It wasn't a stable career. It wasn't lucrative. It offered no money. 

Writing became a struggle; it got harder and harder to fit it into my life. I went into teaching, which meant I had ZERO free time to dedicate to writing. Then came graduate school and more teaching... and marriage. Passion and zest escaped me. 

It's funny. Sometimes things happen in life that seem so horrible, but end up being a blessing in disguise. 

My placement as a gifted teacher was being dissolved. My marriage had fallen apart. My family needed help and I was preparing to uproot myself move across the country to be with them. I was drowning in the bland and monotone sea of life during a churning, wind-howling storm.

So I turned to writing.

I wrote like a fiend. Galvin and Christie offered me their hands and they pulled me out of the gray. I wrote during my lunch break, typed away on the computer as my students took their tests. I carried a notebook with me when I took my dog for a walk and shakily added to Christie and Galvin's story as my pup tugged on the leash. Every free moment I had, I was recording their story. 

Then, one night in the spring of 2016, there was nothing left to tell. Christie and Galvin had finished their story. My fingers hovered over the keyboard momentarily. I closed the notebook hesitantly, wanting to leave the door open a crack in case they forgot something before their departure... but they were done. They left like family after a holiday meal: with a smile and a short wave, thanking me for the time we had together.

Seventeen years it took. Now I want to share their story with you.