The Shirt

[The post you are about to read is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent. The part of “Mom” is played by my Mother. The part of “Dad” is played by my father]

You could tell from the feel of the material, the cut and the needlework, that the shirt was top quality. 

Celebrating my eighteenth birthday, Bethany gave it to me as my present. Mom was impressed (quite an achievement), Dad smiled warmly over the mashed potatoes; Bethany looked especially lovely that evening. We went out to the drive-in that night. At that time of year, nighttime temperatures were pleasant.

The pattern was very geometric, different squares, rectangles, lines and colors, grays and blues and fit my lean frame nicely.

Bethany and I were quite an item. She was the most beautiful girl I had known. Couldn’t believe that she had felt an attraction for me. Her laughter was so free, so natural - it had the quality that was musical; infectious, joyful.

By the time of my next birthday, however, we had broken up. The details escape memory, but I was heartsick. 

I treasured that shirt; deliberately did not wear it often so as to insure that it would not wear out. As long as I could wear it, part of the halcyon days of youth would stay with me. Years and addresses went by, as they are want.  And marriages. But the shirt remained.

Finally, somewhere in the mists of decades the shirt disappeared. And Bethany retreated further back in memory. 

Yet, anytime I would overhear the name “Bethany”, my heart would miss a beat. 

It’s now fifty years since we parted. Somewhere in the course of everyday, I saw a pattern that was enough like the pattern of the shirt that the memory triggered. And, predictably, my heart missed a beat.

For whatever reason, I went to the ‘Classmates.com’ website, and after only a few minutes, found Bethany’s link. Sent her a message along with my email, not knowing if she would respond or not. It wasn’t two days before Bethany’s name came up in my email. And, this time, my heart raced. Breath tightened in my chest. I clicked open the email to find that Bethany had remained in the Phoenix area and a light search of Google surrendered her address and phone. It took a full half day to work up the courage to call.

“Hello”? 

“Bethany? It’s me, from Scottsdale High”

Her voice hadn’t changed a whit, even though fifty years have passed. And, her laugh! Her laugh, as always, bright, free. My heart was racing by then. It’s been almost two weeks now. We email and phone as time is available. 

And fifty years are as only a week or two...