First Love

By Trinity Butterfield

It wasn’t until the brittle, taupe hills of Eastern Washington changed into thriving verdant forests as the school-issued van made its way back home that I knew I loved her. Counting the passing cattle with my eyes, I awaited a reply on the second-hand phone I held close. With every smiley face received, a grin bloomed from my tired face. The seconds between each giddy message grew longer than ever before, and I remembered the previous night.

The moon, a friend who I could always rely on, followed us on the six-hour journey to Spokane. She was home and I, though thrilled to travel with a van full of friends and our instruments, reminisced on intertwined fingers and the intoxication of new love. Service cut in and out through the dry valleys as the trees dissipated and the river ran dry alongside the highway. Closing my eyes, a familiar thought swirled around in my mind. I knew I would fall in love with this girl. 

Her deep blue eyes stayed fresh in my mind as the journey came full-circle and the moon followed me home. The famous three words, which I’d known would be said from the moment we met, hung heavy above us for the next week. It wasn’t a matter of when, but which one of us would muster the courage to say them. Though love is merely a concept to some, the idea that we’d connected so deeply to each other made it seem bigger than we’d ever imagined. The three words eventually did flow, and thus our love began to bloom into what it is today.

The beauty of the world can be seen in her eyes. The burnt orange hues of October sunsets, the serenity of a quiet forest in the late afternoon, and the excitement for the future we’ll undoubtedly build together. Though our love is no longer fresh, each day that adds to the seven hundred and sixty we’ve created is an electrifying one. With our journey has come more self-love than we’d ever imagined, and the appreciation for our minds and bodies is ever-growing. Rituals that we’ve come to rely on for comfort after gray days. Squirrels we’ve befriended in the brisk November breeze. Songs and their familiar words that blast through our speaker systems as the moon follows us home.

First love feels like getting into a warm car on a cold day. It looks like when the sun goes to sleep in a bed of deep purples and pinks. It smells like the first rain of fall on the cracked concrete. With first love comes a certain togetherness that can’t be replicated–an everlasting friendship. 

So as the beige mountains sprinkled with wildflowers were met with miles of vineyards and a rushing river that ran alongside the highway, I sat content. Entire ecosystems passed by and their complexities were hidden by the thick brush as we made our way home. Every hour that went by was one where I was closer to her, and I relished in that. I didn’t know it then, but she would become my home just the same as the place I grew up. My first love has transformed from infatuation to absolute comfort as I know that, like the moon, she’ll always be someone to rely on.