He loves me
My first kiss was to a boy who pointed out my flaws about 10x more than he ever complimented my strengths. I look back now and cannot remember why I liked him, but I do remember how I moved on from him. It was because of the one who I cannot let go of (almost a decade later). I know he hates to see me cry but I hate to see him walk away. Since I met him, I have not been able to date anyone else. He is my best friend. He is the one I pray with. He is the one I laugh with. He is both my shame and my pride. He is the reason I have the confidence to walk around knowing I am a desired creature but, he is also the reason I cannot stand to look at my reflection most days.
Three summers ago, we were laying on my twin size mattress, staring at the ceiling as he held me. The act of holding turned into kissing, kissing turned into touching and touching turned into letting go of innocence. I thought about this moment for quite some time and from the moment I met him, noone else could play the role of my counterpart in those lustful thoughts. Still, I wanted to wait. We didn't. The hundred of times since then, we've closed the distance between "We shouldn't do this" and "Just one more time," it's been difficult to feel like I can be restored. That is after all what the faith teaches us. Looking back now, knowing just last night we were staring at the ceiling and he was holding me again, I wish that someone could go back in time to convince me that no mater how good it feels, there is nothing like knowing you waited. Being on this side of the fish tank feels like I don't belong in the atmosphere of carelessness. Oh, how wonderful the feeling must be to swim in a pool of no regret.
The truth is, I don't regret the sex. I regret that it reminds me of why I went to foster care and what my father went through to get me back home. They say that I had bruises in an area that no three year old girl should and being that this was a time of "Guilty until proven innocent" for immigrants, no one believed my father was the latter. After a full year of fighting and contesting the charges, my father listened to the lawyers and social workers who finally convinced him that saying he was "guilty" and seeking help was the only way the Foster Care system and Family Court judges would even consider giving him back his beautiful little girl.
He spent seven years with predators and child molesters, listening and lying about unspeakable habits because this is what the officials believe "restores innoncence". It worked. Apparently, if a father rapes his daughter, years of counseling is supposed to make their home "safe" again. In truth, he never touched me and no one believed that the bruises came from playing "horsey" with my cousins. Thankfully, I remembered and so, when I was old enough to comprehend what my father endured just so he didn't have to only see me once a week under supervised visits, I could not understand why a man would do that. Could someone love me so much that he'd destroy part of his soul just for the hope, not even the garauntee, to be the one who wakes me up each morning? Eventually, he was able to do just that. I never bothered with my alarm clock because joyfully, dad was there, breakfast ready and car warmed up for my ride to school. Now that he has passed away, I can't help but wish I could restore his innocence.
Last night's hug was wonderful and I feel as if I love this man--the only man my father has ever approved of--but sometimes I wish I could hug my father. Hug him before the world ever labeled him. Hug him inspite of the label. He was innocent. I remained innocent because he loved me. Now, I only want the type of love that a good man can offer. I realize now that the question I need to ask is not, "Will he still love me tomorrow?" The question is, "Does he want to be the one to wake me up every morning?" If not, I know it is worth waiting until I know the answer is yes. For when the answer is "Yes," I know that he will be the last person I kiss.