I remember her whenever I see a needle. We were in Sophomore
year and our Home Economics teacher was demonstrating how to put a needle on a
sewing machine. Yes, even guys like me had to know basic sewing – though I’m
not sure if the same curriculum is applied up to now. Heck that was back in
’98. Only when we became Juniors were we allowed to pick an elective – woodwork,
electronics, etc.
After demonstrating, our teacher removed the needle and then
asked for a volunteer who would refasten it to the Singer sewing machine. Kris -yes, that's her- volunteered. She went to the platform where the sewing machine was and started working. She was able to quickly refasten the needle to the needle clamp. Next was to step on the treadle to make sure that the needle was secure. The rhythmic whir of the machine was broken by the girls' panicked shouts. The treadle stopped and everyone stared as blood came gushing out of her index finger -the needle was stuck in it and was broken in half. The other half was still fastened to the clamp. Our teacher immediately went to her and assisted her to the school clinic.
She didn't cry, not even a whimper. She just looked at her bleeding index finger. Maybe she was thinking: no use crying over spilled milk. She went back to class later that day with a bandaged finger. During Biology, it started to bleed again and all I can think about was how I would like to put fresh bandages on it. Maybe I started to like her that day. I don't really know. I wasn't really paying attention to the girls in our class that much. Or to girls in general. I was more interested in Counter Strike and bikes.
But when I started to take notice of her, I couldn't 'ignore' her afterwards. She's there on the other side of the couch while I'm watching TV. She's standing, staring at me with her hands behind her back as I clean my bike. Or when I'm eating alone at home, she's sitting opposite me, smiling, her right hand cupping her face. It was like I couldn't evade her even when I'm not at school. Though when I'm at school, I could barely even look at her.
I started to write to her at night - on old receipts, on table napkins, on my notebooks. "You're left-handed." "I don't like your haircut." "It's raining outside. I hope you have an umbrella." "Is your bag heavy?" "You weren't in class today." I wrote until I realized I have a shoe box full of unsent, unread notes.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow's Tuesday. Tomorrow I have to give this to her. I promised myself I would work up the courage to leave the box on her desk. I sealed the top of the box with tape and put it beside my school bag so I won't forget. Tomorrow, I will do it.
But I didn't. The box remained on the floor, next to my seat. The boys tried to poke and open the box and I did my best to protect it. I told them it's for my sister's class project (she was a Freshman in my school). All day, I looked over at her desk and then back to the box at my feet, trying to make it move via telekinesis. No such luck. Tomorrow's another day, I told myself.
So the next day, I went to school early and left the box on her desk.
She didn't attend school that day.
So I tried again the day after.
She was absent again that day, and the day after.
It was on Friday (Homeroom day) that we learned from our Homeroom teacher that her family relocated to the U.S. I was still bringing the box to school since Tuesday and as our teacher announced the news, I didn't feel surprised. It's like I knew it all along. I looked at the box. It looked tired and dejected. So when I got home, I dug up a hole in our backyard and buried it - unsent, unread notes and all.
I think she was my first love.
*Image from
here.
