Sebastian

I met him in English class

freshmen year of college,

and we had a class together

every semester.

In between classes,

we would go on adventures,

just me and him,

escaping campus

on perfect days,

driving around in his truck —

slowly and without power steering

because his lift kit messed it up.

I liked the way he drove,

talking to me

while he pretended to get lost

in a neighborhood he knew well.

Leisurely, his foot barely on the pedal,

we drove for hours,

talked about everything we loved,

twangy country music on in the background.

I would pause to sing the words

and he would turn and smile,

happy that I knew the tune.

And then he would join me,

his voice just as off-key as my own.

When his mom called,

I looked out the passenger window

at the quaint college town,

its brick streets and iron sign posts.

And, before he hung up,

he told her he loved her.

I couldn’t help it.

I grinned,

full and broad and looking right into the sun.

I knew before then that he was wonderful,

but he kept proving it time and time again.

We talked mostly about English literature —

our first love —

reading everything in reach,

writing whenever we felt inspired,

sharing the same creative process.

I treasured our conversations,

our daily interactions,

the things he would bring me

just because he could:

a banana for breakfast,

“Potassiyummy” written along the side,

matching smoothies,

a granola bar — or “g-bar”

as he affectionately referred to them —

orange Tic Tacs

poured into my scooped palm

that I exchanged for pralines from home

and handfuls of clementines

that we peeled together,

seated under the trees on the lawn,

throwing the skins into the bushes

while discussing woodwork and hunting,

antiques, and scented candles.

He took me to his favorite hangout —

a bicycle shop that sold home-brewed coffee

and wine by the glass —

one Friday evening.

While our friends went to clubs

and bars,

we sat there over iced tea

and discussed Toni Morrison

until the chairs were stacked on the tables,

the open sign turned around.

And, even after he dropped me off,

he texted me,

continuing our conversation

on symbolism and strong female characters.

On a cold Friday morning,

he texted me after Spanish,

and I met him at the corner coffee shop.

He brought a rose —

a single, long-stemmed red rose

wrapped in cellophane and raffia.

My cheeks hurt

I smiled so much.

I still smile at the thought of him.

It wasn’t meant to last,

like much of life, I know.

But I still read our favorite books

and remember him fondly

without any resemblance of regret.

I have my happy college memories.

And those,

those are the things that last a lifetime.  

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