A beautiful life

We met in second grade. I was new to the school. You were kind and sat with me at lunch when you saw me all alone, crying quietly as I ate my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

"Hi. I'm Frank. You're Jenny, right?"

I nodded, while surreptitiously wiping my eyes on a napkin.

"I sit behind you in class," you said, sitting in the space beside me. "What'cha eating?" you asked, pulling your own sandwich from a brown paper bag.

"Peanut butter and jelly."

"Lucky! That's my favorite. I have liverwurst."

"Liverwurst?" I had never heard of it.

"Yeah. Want to try it?" you asked, holding out a square of sandwich. "I'll trade you for one of your triangles."

I wrinkled my nose (the liverwurst did not smell appetizing), but I pushed my sandwich over so you could grab a quarter of it.

"Thanks," you said, mouth already full of peanut butter and jelly.

The liverwurst wasn’t horrible.

For the next six years, you were my sun. Or perhaps I was yours. We became inseparable. If partners were called for in class, you were mine. We ate lunch together every day. We played handball and tag in the school yard; sometimes I was invited to play jump rope with the girls. No one seemed to notice when I invariably landed on F when we played Strawberry Shortcake – although never the first time through the alphabet, of course. Strawberry shortcake cream on top, tell me the name of your sweetheart, Is it A...B...C...D....E....F....

In eighth grade, we would walk around the school yard during lunch, talking about everything and nothing. You loved Saturday Night Live; I could never stay up late enough to watch it. You would practice your jokes on me. I laughed at them all. I talked about getting into my dream ballet school and someday pirouetting with Mikhail Baryshnikov. You dreamed with me.

After school you might walk me home now and again – we were both latch-key kids so no guests were allowed in my home or yours…and being obedient (or just scared of our mothers and neighbors who kept an eye out), we just sat on the porch doing homework on days you didn't have piano or guitar lessons or choir practice and I didn’t have ballet class.

High school came and all our friends and family thought, well, that’s that since we chose different schools. I went to an all girl school and you went to an all boys school.

But, almost every evening we talked on the phone. I'd pull the long cord into the pantry and close the door. We'd talk about our preferred classes – French for me, Chemistry for you, and favorite teachers – Sister Bea for me, Father Bob for you. I worried about ballet performances, you'd kvetch about a joke or a song you were working on.

For your 16th birthday, your friends from our church folk group had a surprise party for you. It was the first time we danced together. It was the first time you looked at me as not just your best friend. We danced our first slow dance to Heatwave’s Always and Forever. I lay my head on your chest. I could hear your heart pounding.

Or perhaps it was mine.

We had our first kiss.

We fell in love.

Junior year I did a play at your school. I got the lead. You came to every performance.

Senior year you started to do stand-up in the city as soon as you turned eighteen. I got a fake ID so I could cheer you on.

We went to different colleges but only miles apart. Our dreams changed. You became a pharmacist; I became a teacher.

We got married a year after we graduated, bought a house, a car, and had two children. We were happy. We were married 67 years before you passed in your sleep.

It would have been a beautiful life, if only…