FREE ESSAY ON MEMORIES OF SORROW

MEMORIES OF SORROW

Somehow, it always seems that the most important memories are always hidden by some
unknown force. I am
almost certain to forget facial features or marking traits of someone special to me. If I
try to remember, it is lost.
Memories are not always an accurate recollection of the truth; sometimes they are not
real at all. For whatever
reason, people always seem to remember what they would like to believe the truth is. With
all this in mind, I will
share a personal recollection of my first romance.
It was on a Friday during the winter months of my 8th grade year. If I recall correctly,
which I always do,
her name was Nicole. Her name, Greek for Victory of the People, always embedded such awe
and mystery into
my mind. The angelic Nicole stepped into my life on a cold day, as I sat there in my
school bus after another long
day. I was sleepy, like always, because I had gone to bed late the night before. Then as
unexpected as snow in
Brownsville, I saw her. She was a vision, her golden hair streaming down to her neck. Her
eyes sparkled like a
thousand stars. She was tall and lusciously curvy. She was so curvy that it was a danger
to all of heaven's minions.
I still have never been as anxious to meet any one as I was meeting her. God, with his
merciful divinity, had shined
his light upon the earth and sprinkled the world with one true miracle, Nicole.
What luck I had, she sat next to me! What was I going to do? I was always very uncertain
with women.
Sure they said they liked me, but I had never really had a girlfriend before. Due to some
strange outwardly liar
paradox, I remained quiet. How could I make a fool out of myself? As time passed, so did
my fear. I slowly began
to get more and more comfortable with her vast beauty so close to me. As time passed I
gained more confidence
due to our assigned seating, I gradually worked my way up the ranks from Hi, to Hello,
and ultimately to the
benchmark: Hi, how was your weekend?
Nicole and I soon became very good friends on the bus, but my greed asked for more; I
needed to have
unlimited access. I soon plotted a way to get her phone number. If all worked out I was
going to be the happiest
person in the entire world. My plan was simple: strike with a cheap and cheesy pick up
line. All I had to do was
wait for the appropriate moment to strike. Almost like an axiom I saw the moment appear
in front of me. It was
now or never! I quickly blurted out, I lost my phone number, may I have yours? 
I still see the absurdity of that moment. Even now I laugh at myself and at how I could
be so entirely
childish in manner. At that moment the world had just stood still, I could have heard a
cricket miles away. As I
held my breath, I thought to myself: was she going to laugh at me, or was she going to
give me her number? I
didn't know, and honestly, I wasn't anxious to find out either. After a moment of her
staring blankly at me, she let
out a giggle and a smile and said sure. And that was it, I had done it. I was the
happiest boy on that school bus.
That day had been a total success.
I hurried home to transfer the numbers off of my hand and onto some paper. I was not
going to lose her
number! As I jotted the numbers down I was hit with a terrifying thought, when was I
going to call! I had never
had a girls number before, at least not one who I was interested in. Was there an ethic
to be followed? I let the
weekend slide. Debating weather to call or not, I decided to wait for our Monday talk to
ask.
Monday arrived slower then expected. Time has a way of mocking a waiting person. When I
ran up into
the bus; I spotted her instantly. The back of the bus glowed in the radiance o her tender
smile. She had a way of
making the plain and dull seem so full of life and energy. I quickly made my way towards
the sweet smell of her
tender skin. She, almost instinctively, moved aside and smiled; "How was your weekend?"
I quickly made up an elaborate lie on how I had been busy all weekend. I considered my
act a sure sign of
heterodoxy, I had lied to my love. I slowly worked my way up to the subject, when to
call. How would I ask such a
question without looking like a dork. Eventually I got enough nerve to blurt out an
incoherent "When may I call
you?"
I was readily pleased to hear her response of "When ever possible." 
That day I stood vigil over my phone, ready to call my chaste angel. The time ticked by,
was it too soon or
too long? I swallowed my fears and I brought my self to call. There was a booming ring, I
could feel my pulse
rising, another ring, I could barely breath, "Hello?"
That was Her! My love had a voice of such wonderful tones. With that voice she could sing
out divine
chords unheard of by mankind. "Hello?"
"Hi is Nicole there?" I asked, well knowing it was whom I was talking to.
"This is me, Joram, Is that you?"
"Yes this is me." I replied as I celebrated my success, I was talking to my princess!
"Guess what, I just found out I'm going to move to Houston!" 
"WHAT!" I said lamely, thinking it was a cruel joke.
"Seriously, my Father got a new job offer"
My future was clear. A single moment, ending the sensations of life, the in breath, the
out breath, the
cessation of life. The abyss so deep, the chasm so wide, there was nowhere to run, no
place to hide. there was utter
desolation in every moment, desperate thoughts only of despair, depression and I, the
most intimate pair. No
moments of reprieve, darkness in the sunshine, darkness in the light, darkness
everywhere, nothing else in sight. I
could feel my life crumble within my self.
But alas, God works in mysterious ways. That year was not my best, and she was not my
first. Like all
things in nature I understood, even love, lust, and celibacy are affected by the
unexpected forces of half-life decay. I
soon realized we were not going to succeed as any thing more then friend's. As time
passes so does my impression
of Nicole's face, voice, and charm. Time changes every thing but most of all it changes
my memories of Nicole. I
can hardly remember her sweet charm, and know I will soon forget her. There are always
things best left forgotten.