twice

I have loved two times. Those who know me, know this. And also know how formative, tumultuous, and in the end beautiful this has made what I call my life. Neither can be summed up tidily or recorded in any way that will give an accurate portrayal of what happened. And since these two stories quite dramatically overlap, what with missions and being 19 etc etc, it is hard to say where one begins and the other ends.


I want to try to tell some of both.  I think I will go about it in phases.  We will call it love story pt 1. and sweetly since.

love story pt 1.   *   * 

Due to the dramatic end, all evidence (journals, letters, gifts, notebooks, pictures--all of which there were quite a large number) have literally been burned. And with the passing of Garrett this spring, I am left alone to record what has been. It will be one sided and greatly lacking in detail. I am not sure why I feel it needs to be written down, but it does. It was a lengthy, wonderful, confusing, impactful chapter of my life that I no longer wish to erase as I did.

I was 8. We had just returned home from a year in England. My dad was going to home teach the Smith family. “They have a boy about your age Brinn. Maybe you could come with me this time?” And so the two of us walked through our backyard, down the Mensel’s driveway, and up to their front door. My dad had his falcon on fist, and as we sat in the warm front room, I watched as that little boy’s big brown eyes got bigger, listening intently to every word from my Dad’s mouth. He could hardly conceal the smile spreading across his young face, and kept looking back and forth from the bird, to me. Two loves were born that day. I still remember what it felt like to be looked at like that. 8 years old, and I could feel something in his gaze. Something new and powerful and a little unnerving.

The next day he was on the bus. I hadn’t ever noticed before or him me, but now our eyes met again and that light and smile I would come to love flashed across his face. I looked away.

The following week, at recess, a kid from the grade above me ran down the grassy hill in an urgent manner, shoved a folded piece of yellow paper into my hand, and sprinted away. Eyes looking at me. I opened it up to read a message from my new admirer, and felt and hated the red in my cheeks. “Please write back.”

The next day, this time at morning recess, another note. And another and another. I didn’t know what to do with this unwanted attention.

Every Tuesday afternoon was my violin lesson at Jane Mensel’s house. I had only to walk through my backyard, through the gate, and I was there. But today something else was there too. A small wooden box had been attached with wire to the fence, orange lettering describing its purpose as a “Mailbox for Garrett and Brinn ONLY”. I looked inside. A letter,some chocolates and a rubber banded bunch of dandelions and flowers from neighbors' gardens. ‘I think you are nice. I want to marry you. Love, Garrett”

sweetly since *    *

I’m not sure when I started loving Dorius. It is not beyond reason that we were aquainted before we came. Because it was not in my plans, it was not in my nature, to act and feel about someone, a stranger, as I did immediately about him.  

It was like a music video. Walking down the sidewalk in the dappled light of ancient trees, students passing silently by in the autumn air. I was looking down. Then I looked up. His eyes met mine and it was there. A connection, an intrigue, a love begun. I looked away, pretended to be fascinated with the backpack in front of me, and we passed. I didn’t know him.  But as I kept staring at that stupid backpack, all I could see were those eyes. Bright blue. Startling and comforting.

Days and other students passed with no repeat sighting. It bothered me that I thought about him, that I was so curious about him. I wanted to know him. And then I saw him, and I’m not sure what I thought I would do, but what I did was walk on by and pretend I hadn’t seen him. We crossed paths quite a few times, each time the same “look straight ahead” routine.

Then I noticed he seemed to be following me. Me. Pretended or real, I enjoyed the game. One time with him behind me, I walked a variation of my route, the route he typically “followed” me, and sure enough, he remained on my tail. I told Natalie about this boy I kept seeing everywhere and seemed to be following me.  Since I didn’t know his name, he affectionately became known as “stalker boy”. And then he was gone. Because  everyone was gone. The semester ended, we returned to Salt Lake. I didn’t think of him as much. But wondered if I would ever have the chance to know him. Worried that I wouldn’t. Confused that I would care.