g — She was the first woman I ever truly loved, and it was our last kiss.
I knew things were ending, the way you know when a storm is coming or the Oreo package is depressingly light or your belly’s about to go bad in the 24th mile. I didn’t want to let go, but what else can you do? Everyone had left for the evening, but I stayed. A Rangers game was on TV. I don’t think she knew what was going on by then, but it was something for me to stare at. I sat by her bed for hours in the quiet evening, holding her hand, thinking of all the things I never told her. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want HER to go. But I knew how the story would end. Even Hallmark couldn’t spin this one. I finally said good night, bent over and kissed her forehead softly. I walked outside and laid down on the sidewalk. I looked up at the night sky and sobbed in a way I didn’t know I was capable of. I wondered how I could go on. But, of course, she had thought of that long ago.
When I was younger, I had a habit of accidentally shaving my head. On one such occasion, I came home for a family visit. Kate, my younger niece, walked into the living room, took one look, SCREAMED in terror, began to cry and ran away. I had no idea what to do. But then a couple of minutes later, she came marching in with a wig and placed it on my head. “I brought you hair,” she said proudly. She then made me wear it the entire weekend. I looked ravishing. Of course, I knew the mastermind behind the plan. The same mastermind who paid Kate a quarter every time she would spray me in the face with a squirt gun during the run across Texas. If plan A doesn’t work out, she always said, we’ll go to Plan B. I think Kate was her plan B. Because you never forget that last kiss. Or that first wig. Maybe Noah is your plan B. You should probably shave your head at some point for test purposes.