Her name was Susan and she was my first love – at least, what passes for love at the tender age of seven.
We were inseparable as friends, and impish to the core, like the time we decided to make a real spider web in her room with 2 balls of wool and a pot of honey; I was banned for a while after that, but Susan’s tears soon sorted that out.
Then one fateful day the spelling test came. I did well as usual, but came second, having misspelled ‘honour’, however she did better and won the coveted lollipop prize. I was so proud of her, genuinely, and only a little jealous.
But then I found out she had cheated; I did not speak to her again, ever.
Do you really want to be forever young?
What age would you be? Would you want to be forever innocent? Or perhaps forever stupid?
Or would you want the passing years to accumulate deep aches and joys, wisdom and peace, until one day, you are ready, to be, forever.
The chill wind swept across the wild, heathery glen, tugging at our inadequate clothing like ghostly fingers of long dead kilted warriors.
“Surely this is not the place, Sean,” she pleaded, “so desolate?”
I squeezed her hand tightly, “Up there on the rise, my uncle’s shepherd hut. I know tis not much to look at, Mare, but it will be our new home, I promise.”
She rested her other hand on the little bump that could no longer be hidden and sighed, “Ah well, come on then, we’ll catch our death out in this cold.”
I wrapped my arm around her and kissed her forehead, looking back for just a moment at the little village in the distance where the evening fires were being lit, sending fine whisps of smoke swirling into the lonely, frosty heights.