SILVER MUSTANG

My first vivid heartbreak is also tied to my first big loss. When I was ten years old, my dad decided he wanted to pursue his dream of being a pastor. In order to do this, we needed to move.

I didn’t want to move. I was in love with my ten-year-old life. We lived on an acre of land in a small town about an hour’s ferry ride from Seattle, Washington. I played in the woods all the time, and didn’t care about much else. Sure, I considered myself a good Christian, but moving to Portland, Oregon for Christ? Nope, I was not on board.

I had no say in the matter. Why would I? No child has a right, in a Patriarchal family structure, to dictate where they will live. What my dad wanted; he got. Whether or not I was personally happy did not factor in the equation.

So, we moved to Portland, and dad started attending the Multnomah School of the Bible. We moved to a rental house across the street from a hospital. The family next door was from Vietnam. There were no trees in our backyard. I was mystified at this “city life”.

I started to write letters to my “boyfriend” back home. Surely, we could continue to keep our precious relationship intact. It didn’t matter to me that he never agreed to be my boyfriend.

His name was Jeff Snow, and to me he was the perfect boy. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and loved football. I worshipped his family. They seemed to have it all: A lake house, good grades, and plenty of friends.

I wrote letter after letter with no response. I was starting to get desperate, so I upped the ante. I sent him my favorite silver mustang charm as a token of my affection.

I got a response this time. I was so excited as I opened his letter. I figured the whole token thing had worked. Perhaps my time spent imagining our future together was going to pay off.

As I thought of what messages of love he was sending to me, my eye caught a glint of silver. Along with my necklace, there was a short note. “Sorry I can’t be your boyfriend, you live too far away now.” That was it. I think his mother had him write it.