and maybe, every now and then, you remember it. the way you sat there, cross-legged, on your bed, cradling the phone in your hand. the way you listened to his voice come over the line to you, from only 10 miles away. the way he asked you what your favorite poem was, and you told him the title, and he asked you to recite it, and so you began to, and then he took it over for you. read you the whole thing.

and as you were listening to him, your fifteen year old heart twisted softly inside you, and cracked you open with love, and you felt new-made. you felt you understood. and there was no need to reason it out -- that the boy who never liked to read had gone out and sought these words to win you over. you just felt yourself slip slightly sideways and the perspective you had on the world changed, and suddenly everything around you was new, just dawning, and everything was good.

and years later, now, it's that soft twisting that you remember. a few years ago it was the anger, the brokenness, the sensation of being cast off or taken advantage of. and now, like an old woman dreaming of herself, you remember that twist, that upswing of first love. and you understand that that gift -- that gift of dawning and glorious things -- that gift is the one he has given you. not the gift of hard won and painful knowledge, but the gift that he meant to give you in the first place.

the twist of love. the new-made world. the soft and open you that you'd forgotten.