I drove home on Thursday night to help my sister get ready for the prom. Actually, it wasn’t really that I helped her do anything–she was a whirlwind of activity–I think I was just there to press the buttons of the camera and fix her eyeshadow. I applied make up to a face that was already glowing and zipped her into a beautiful light blue dress. I thought of a time in the future when I would have to get that dressed up…and failed, realizing that the poofiness factor of my life was slowly dwindling.

Fastening her necklace, adjusting the halter top, she was a sight to behold. There she was in front of me–18 years old, all grown up. My sister, tough as nails and yet so delicately beautiful–small in stature and with fragile features, fierce blue-green eyes and a unique way of laughing at herself so hard she would cry at the same time. At the sight of her, tears sprang into my eyes. I told her she better watch out at her wedding, I was liable to be a bawling baby the entire day. Inside, I secretly prayed I wouldn’t lose her to marriage for years and years.

Even more startling than the young woman before me, was the image of a girl I knew four years ago, in the same place–myself. Unlike most prom stories that are filled with dramatic limousine mishaps and girl-on-girl catfights, my prom was simply storybook. I had, for one night, thrown away my typical cutesy fashion sense and opted for a hot pink fitted ballgown which I am still very much a fan of. I’m sure that in a few more years, I will look at the pictures in disgust but just four years later, I still think it’s pretty.

Besides my lovely dress, in my opinion, I was on the arm of the best thing in the whole world–a boy who I was completely and utterly in love with. It’s a feeling I can’t recall now, even if I sit and reflect, which I often do, eager to know what it felt like. As hard as I try, I am always stumped to remember exactly what first love was really like. I just know that I looked up to him and adored him. At 18, in hot pink, the real world had not touched me much and in my eyes, he had not yet fallen to earth as a regular person with faults. To me, he was perfect.

My sister pins the rosebud on her boyfriend’s tuxedo and he slips the corsage on her tiny wrist. I think it’s a gawdy terrible tradition but I remember doing the same. The difference was that my date had my corsage made especially for me. My favorite flowers were daisies and he had ordered a beautiful little arrangement of tiny tiny daisies among a pink rose. Up until that point, it was probably the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me.

In fact, he was always one-upping himself in terms of gifts and affection. I still have not found a boyfriend who has romanced me the same way, if at all. Flowers of course or a nice piece of jewelry but never in the way that he did. His was always personal and well thought out. Here was a person who knew my favorite things, my dislikes, my loves. He had always found a way to spin them all together into something that was magical. I still listen to his mix tapes in my car.

My sister takes pictures in that cheesy pose with her boyfriend behind her and his arms around her waist. The classic “prom pose” I have so often recreated in cheesy pictures in college when I had a little too much wine. I laugh but it’s so adorable that it doesn’t matter. We take pictures on the grass, in front of flowers, in the backyard, in the kitchen. Even with her silver heels on, she barely towers at 5′2. Her hair is curly and deep dark brown except for the front few streaks of blonde–natural highlighting from the sun, enough to make any girl jealous.

I hop in the car with my dad and we drive to the high school for more pictures. They take a group shot of everyone standing awkwardly on the bleachers. I run into an old high school friend and her engagement ring is blinding. I’m so happy for her that I jump up and down and she firmly declares that I have not changed one ounce since high school–I am still very hyper, very happy and that physically, I am the same. She is slimmer, more mature, almost married. I tell her how pleased I am with the news of her impending wedding, her possible teaching position, her put-together life. I am actually surprised that I feel absolutely okay with it all. I am genuinely excited, thrilled and touched. Four years have passed?

I stay by her side, catching up with her and stealing glimpses of my sister who is glowing with excitement. Her boyfriend stands by her, in a simple tuxedo, letting mothers and daughters gush over her. I admit to myself that they are a very cute couple. And naturally, my sister is the prettiest girl in the room.

I step back and actually let myself go back to that place four years ago. It’s been awhile but if I breathe in deeply, I can picture myself on those bleachers, smiling. I can picture him next to me. Flashes of our relationship pass in my mind. They are snapshots going fast, small flickers of a candle going out.

We are under a tree in a park, having a picnic. We are napping on the couch, sharing food at a diner, dancing to cheesy music in the kitchen while I do the dishes. Tuna sandwiches, his lanky limbs, the way he could always always make me laugh. My sister must have her own picturebook and I pray as I watch her that she won’t have to put it on the shelf one day and try to make a new one with someone else. For whatever reason, it doesn’t work out quite as nicely. It is different and startling and tiring to rebuild your life anew.

I have accomplished it. More than once now. I have compiled my own scraps and pictures and flickers and pieces. I shelve them neatly next to each other in my head though the first one is the biggest. My first love is biblical, no longer towering over my life, but fading and still holding many truths and many standards. A corsage made out of mini-daisies, who would have thought such a thing possible?

My sister waves goodbye and they herd the pretty teens on a bus to the prom. I stand on the concrete in front of the high school with flip flops on my feet and a scarf wrapped around my hair. I am the opposite of glamorous. I hug my engaged friend goodbye, take down her number, knowing I probably will never call and that the next time I run into her, she may very well be a wife.

I look back at the building and watch myself in a backpack, trekking to class. Images flash again–Ashley in sunglasses, Karen with a hemp necklace on, Roger with his enormous lunchbag. I am among them, still an awkward girl who loves to learn and talks too much in class. It feels strange to visit this place, stranger still to realize how much time has passed.

The essence of high school and my very first love stay with me throughout the night. I smile on the drive back to the city, thinking of teachers I miss and horrible cafeteria food. I think of prom and of the tall boy who used to play his guitar for me. He still plays, I believe. But for other ears.

For me and him, there is only silence now. But I am blessed to have him still in the corners of my mind. He is implanted there, for eternity and when I am despairing, his spirit shines through and whispers to me that love may find me after all.

Peace.