By Kathleen Gilles Seidel
It has been 15 years considering that Emily has visible Jeff, her highschool love, and their ally, Woody. Now a profitable activities agent for certainly one of Chicago's best companies, Emily feels she's eventually made it on her personal. Then, all of a sudden, she hears Woody on a overdue evening radio exhibit. His voice speaks in their bittersweet previous, beckoning Emily to discover Jeff once more.
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She had a cute face with round cheeks and a little nose. It was a magical kind of face, belonging to a child for whom the fairies and elves gave tea parties with white cloths spread across the forest floor. It was also a face entirely at odds with her personality. She was the least elfin of creatures. Her nature was deeply practical, her manner brisk and decisive. Her judgment was superb, her imagination nonexistent. This made her good at her job. If the Ice Capades contract fell through, you tried the Ice Follies, then the Ice Circus, the Ice Dancers, and on down the line until that client had a job.
Emily dropped her suitcase inside her apartment door, barely remembering to turn off the burglar alarm. She hurried over to the teak cabinet that held her stereo equipment, jerked it open, and turned on the receiver. Sinking down in front of the speakers, she listened. Some people, our parents, say they’ll always remember where they were when they heard about Pearl Harbor— It was Woody. She was sure. Hadn’t her senior class voted him “Most Unforgettable Character”? He had been their class clown, big and mischievous, with a bold, bright swagger.
A relationship that, while certainly over, does not quite feel finished. A woman can have been married for nine years, she can have two wonderful children, and yet there will be a memory of this boy. She knows that if she were to see him again, now that she is a woman and he a man, there would be for a moment a feeling in the pit of her stomach that he was the important one, not this husband of nine years. But for most women that moment never comes. You always expect that someday you will see your old love, and maybe you never accept that it won’t happen until the day you read his obituary.