Forgetting Megan Fisher [sic]

I’ve been romantically involved with women since kindergarten. It all started when I left my first love letter in Megan Fisher’s supply bin. We had a great relationship, the two of us; when we were up, we were up. I loved sharing my paste with her during those times. I would make her drawings of my dog, Tippy-Toes, and she would tell me about how her dad flew on planes. Those were some of the best days of my life.
The love letter I wrote to her that fateful spring day during free time is still as vivid in my mind now as it was then. It had my standard illustration of Tippy, a sun in the top corner with a smiley face, and a large flower, as large as an actual kindergarten student, with a face that mirrored the sun’s. At the top I wrote “I LOVE YOU” with a heart around the word “LOVE”.   I was most pleased, however, with my muse, Megan, and how she turned out. I remember this because I paid extra close attention to making sure that she had five fingers and five toes. Why you could see her toes, even though I clearly surrounded them with a shoe, I’m not sure. Maybe it wasn’t a shoe. Maybe it was a sandal.  Maybe her shoes were invisible.  I’m an artist and I was inspired, so please don’t ask me to explain such things.
As I eyed my final product one last time before I put it into her supply bin, I felt a sudden rush of excitement surge through me. Things had been great the last few days of class. We had meaningful conversations in the play-kitchen set as she set the table and cooked dinner in the oven. I even washed the dishes for her one day. She played blocks with me and cheered for me as I played basketball. I really felt our relationship was ready to move on to the next level. So I dropped the letter in her bin, crept back to my desk and waited for coloring time so that I could watch her as she took out her crayons.
I stared with a sophomoric grin as our group was called to get our supplies, and I meandered a little slower than usual so I could revel in her excitement as she opened her bin and found my letter. I watched as she pulled her bin open and slowly took it out. She carefully opened it, read the text deliberately, maybe even twice, and smiled. Then she laughed.
If you could imagine the Hindenberg crashing inside of my chest, that’s about how I felt at that particular moment. I still continued my trek to my bin, I needed my crayons after all, but as I stood next to Megan, I had to fight back the tears.
“I don’t love you,” she said, and then walked back to our table. It was that simple.
I was devastated. Things seemed to be going great over the past few days. How could I have misjudged our relationship so terribly. As it turned out, there was another kindergartner in her life. He was from Mr. Jardina’s class next door, and I was none too pleased with him. I found out through the grapevine that her dad and his dad flew on planes together and that Megan had been spending time with him on the weekends, playing real-life kitchen.
She wanted something that I couldn’t offer. Someone who lives next door whose dad flew on planes and played in a real kitchen. Why wouldn’t she have told me this from the start?  I wasn’t that kind of guy and she knew it. I was the kind of guy who laughed when Stephen ate his dog food that we pasted to our letter D worksheets. I wasn’t all high-class and sophistication, like knowing things about airplanes and how kitchen appliances worked.
After that day the whole classroom knew about my love letter. It spread like wildfire. Everyone gave me a wide berth from then on. They could tell I was a man on fire. The days after the dynamic of my relationship with Megan changed forever were some dark ones. I rubbed my paste in her hair when the teacher wasn’t looking. Ketchup packets suddenly became impossible to open. It also started my drinking problem. I couldn’t drink from a carton of milk without using a straw any longer. My life was like an Air Supply song.
Then I hit the absolute bottom. One Saturday afternoon I decided I was ready to end it all. I climbed up on the counter and searched through the cupboards. I found my Flintstone chewables and opened the lid. Child safety lids were nothing to me. I was advanced for my age. I took out all of the orange ones and lined them up on the counter. Three at a time I stuffed them into my mouth, hoping to find some relief to the pain Megan had been putting me through. Fortunately, my mom walked into the kitchen and ripped the bottle from my hands. She asked me what I was doing and I lied. I told her I liked the orange ones. She didn’t know about Megan. How could I ever hope to explain to her the personal anguish I had experienced, finding out my one true love was involved with another man? When she called the number on the Mr. Yuck sticker, they told her to make me drink lots of fluids. By then, my parents knew about my drinking problem and got me a glass of water with a straw. That was the rock-bottom. I was reduced to nothing. It was a dark time in my life.
I finished that year of kindergarten in pieces. Everyday I read Humpty Dumpty and knew exactly how he felt. Once the school year ended, it took at least two weeks of summer before I managed to put myself back together again.
I’ve been reflecting on that life changing year over these past weeks, wondering if I should’ve given Megan my extra carrot sticks at lunch or let her have the blue rug at nap time; wondering if it would’ve made a difference if I had actually done all of things I only thought about. One thing I remembered though, was how hard it was to sit next to Megan Fisher everyday, knowing that she didn’t love me. Especially during “V Week” when everyone was getting Valentines from their significant others and Megan and I couldn’t even stand to look at each other.
But as painful as it was, however, I wouldn’t change anything that happened on that fateful day by the supply bins. As difficult and turbulent as that time in my life was, I really grew a lot not only as a kindergartener, but as person that year. Yeah, sure, I learned the alphabet, alright. But I also learned a valuable life lesson. You can’t change who you are. I may never grow up into the man who likes to wash dishes in the play-kitchen or fly on airplanes. No, I have to find someone who loves that I can do two somersaults in a row or that I have a stuffed animal gorilla that talks when you squeeze its hand.
So Megan, if you’re reading this now, I wish you well, but, looking back at our relationship, I’m glad that it didn’t work out between us.

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3 Responses to Forgetting Megan Fisher [sic]

  1. Colleen says:

    I totally remember Megan Fischer! She was my best friend in third grade, until she moved away! You have a knack for writing, Andy…I’m not sure why I never picked up on this before!

  2. mrburdicksblog says:

    Apparently I don’t have a knack for spelling or true love, since I didn’t even know how to spell Megan Fischer’s name. No wonder she got away. I just didn’t pay attention to all the small stuff. Like her name.
    As to why you never picked up on my sick writing skillz, it’s probably because I like to unleash my talents on society a little bit at a time. Too much of me at once would cause global temperatures to rise by 5 degrees and a baby boom unseen to mankind. The first black President, yeah, that was me.

  3. Megan Fischer says:

    Why don’t you tell your readers what you REALLY put in my hair (can you say – “There’s something about M…Megan”)

    I cringe when I think about it, I was only 5. Sure, you liked me, but that’s no reason to go all “Silence of the Lambs”. Ugh.

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