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关于初恋的英语美文篇1First Love
A surge of adrenalin, a rush of blood, a thing of innocence and pain that lasts a lifetime
I REMEMBER the way the light touched her hair. She turned her head, and our eyes met, a momentary awareness in thatraucous fifth-grade classroom. I felt as though Id been struck a blow under the heart. Thus began my first love affair.
Her name was Rachel, and I mooned my way through grade and high school, stricken at the mere sight of her, tongue-tied in her presence. Does anyone, anymore, linger in the shadows of evening, drawn by the pale light of a window-her window-like some hapless summer insect? That delirious swooning, asexual but urgent and obsessive, that made me awkward and my voice crack, is like some impossible dream now. I know I was so afflicted, but I cannot actually believe what memory insists I did. Which was to suffer. Exquisitely.
I would catch sight of her, walking down an aisle of trees to or from school, and Id become paralyzed. She always seemed so poised, so self-possessed. At home, Id relieve each encounter, writhing at the thought of my inadequacies. Even so, as we entered our teens, I sensed her affectionate tolerance for me.
Going steady implied a maturity we still lacked. Her Orthodox Jewish upbringing and my own Catholic scruples imposed a celibate grace that made even kissing a distant prospect, however fervently desired. I managed to hold her once at a dance - chaperoned, of course. Our embrace made her giggle, a sound so trusting that I hated myself for what Id been thinking.
At any rate, my love for Rachel remained unrequited. We graduated from high school, she went on to college, and I joined the Army. When World War II engulfed us, I was sent overseas. For a time we corresponded, and her letters were the highlight of those grinding, endless years. once she sent me a snapshot of herself in a bathing suit, which drove me to the wildest of fantasies. I mentioned the possibility of marriage in my next letter, and almost immediately her replies became less frequent, less personal.
The first thing I did when I returned to the States was to call on Rachel. Her mother answered the door. Rachel no longer lived there. She had married a medical student shed met in college. I thought she wrote you, her mother said.
Her Dear John letter finally caught up with me while I was awaiting discharge. She gently explained the impossibility of a marriage between us. Looking back on it, I must have recovered rather quickly, although for the first few months I believed I didnt want to live. Like Rachel, I found someone else, whom I learned to love with a deep and permanent commitment that has lasted to this day.
Then recently, after an interval of more than 40 years, I heard from Rachel again. Her husband had died. She was passing through town and had learned of my whereabouts through a mutual friend. We agreed to meet.
I felt both curious and excited. In the last few years, I hadnt thought about her, and her sudden call one morning had taken me aback. The actual sight of her was a shock. This white-haired matron at the restaurant table was the Rachel of my dreams and desires, the supple mermaid of that snapshot?
Yet time had given us a common reference and respect. We talked as old friends, and quickly discovered we were both grandparents.
Do you remember this? She handed me a slip of worn paper. It was a poem Id written her while still in school. I examined the crude meter and pallid rhymes. Watching my face, she snatched the poem from me and returned it to her purse, as though fearful I was going to destroy it.
I told her about the snapshot, how Id carried it all through the war.
It wouldnt have worked out, you know, she said.
How can you be sure? I countered. Ah, Colleen, it might have been grand indeed - my Irish conscience and your Jewish guilt!
