Roads not taken #6...

Have I ever told you about the time we met on the bus in middle school…?

It was the first day of seventh grade, and I was sitting by myself on the bus (Ian must have been sick, else he'd have been there). I blinked sleepily at the new faces that got on at each stop, barely noticing them, until you.

You were lovely, hair pulled back, looking very nervous, but absolutely radiant in the morning light. I was pretty instantly smitten with you, so when you came to my seat and asked if you could sit with me, I barely had the voice to agree.

As you sat beside me, you gave me a thin smile, and I could see the anxiety clearly on your face. Thinking quickly, I asked if you wanted to listen to music with me, pulling out my old, worn Walkman. You hesitated, thrm nodded, looking relieved. I passed you one of the headphones and we listened together all the way to school. When we got there, you thanked me, and headed off.

That afternoon, we rode home the same way. And then the next morning, the same. We would listen, talking about the bands, then everything else. I was already in love by the rime Friday rolled around, but I didn't have the words to tell you, so I spent all weekend making you a mixtape of songs I loved and wanted to share.

I gave you the tape Monday morning, and on Tuesday, you came onto the buzz practically vibrating with excitement. We didn't even listen to music that day, just discussed the songs. I knew right then that I'd do anything to make your eyes light up like that, so the next weekend, I made you another tape.

I kept making you tapes nearly every week for months, wanting every time to fill one with the love songs that, by then, all reminded me of you, but never having the courage. Not until a few weeks before Christmas, when you got on the bus in tears.

As soon as you sat down, you collapsed into my arms, sobbing. I held you quietly as you told me that you had to go back to Sweden after the break, and wouldn't be back. The bottom dropped out of my world and I held you tightly, as though I could somehow keep you in place. But I couldn't. You were leaving, and my heart was going with you.

That week, I did it. I made the tape that said everything I couldn't, handpicking every song, putting them in just the right order, all so could take me with you back home, so that, if you ever missed me, or felt scared or lonely, you could remember that, somewhere in the world, you were loved.

I gave you the tape on Friday, as you were getting off the bus. Monday morning, you were crying again, only this time, you held me, clinging to me fiercely, telling me that you would write, find ways to stay in touch. I told you that I loved you, and you kissed me, a sweet, simple kiss that I'll remember always.

When you left, I was heartbroken for weeks. Then the first package arrived. It had a handwritten letter, and a tape, with little palm trees drawn in the liner notes. I listened to it endlessly, writing you back about each song, and sent you the letter, along with my own new tape. And we never stopped.

For five years, we wrote, shared music, shared our lives, found ways to call when we could, then chatting online for hours. The tapes became CDs, then playlists of stolen MP3s, connecting us across years and miles until university, when you came back to me. I met you at the airport with an MP3 player full of our music.

Now, decades later, we're still making each other playlists. I even recreated those old tapes (you kept every single one), and we sit together, my arm over your shoulders, you leaning into me, listening. When we got married, I told you that you were the harmony to my heartsong, and, as always, you kissed me. We spent the rest of our life together just as in love as we were that first year on the bus, the music binding our hearts now and always.