Nostalgia has been a far more consistent companion than most.
Last night I was on the school bus, holding my first loves hand. He gave me a smile that had always made me feel weak, and as I placed my head on his shoulder once again, around us our friends sat.
The warmth of summer beckoned us beyond the bus windows and we felt the freedom of our age.
No one fought, no one hated each other yet. Their laughter was far louder than the future that would quickly overcome us, the changes we would see.
For that moment we were kids in our adult bodies letting go of a past that would always be there.
Because one day that first love would become my first heartbreak, those friends would decide that I am no longer someone they wish to be friends with.
And we would all hate each other, eventually, but never as much as we hated ourselves.
Each person would fade until only my first love and I sat, I would look out the window and hold his hand a little tighter, because my memory is returning and I do not want to accept his betrayal, the love he took to another because he was not patient enough with me.
How could the first of love be the worst of love, even as it lives only in your memory?
Nostalgia has been a far more consistent companion than most, even as it stabs me in the back every time.
A Series of Observations 