Devonne Brown

Alan came to my house to pick me up and we went somewhere. The first time I held Alan’s hand I was scared, bubbly, and giddy all at once. He held my hand to the car. That’s all I remember about the date – he reached out his hand for mine and I remember reaching for his and we touched for the first time. My hand felt more than warm and enfolded in someone else’s. It made me feel  as if a forcefield surrounded me, that I was engulfed in love and protection. I don’t think my feet touched the ground while his hand held mine. 

In the tenth grade I couldn’t believe someone I liked, liked me back. I was awkward with bad hair and big glasses, but so was he. He was a senior. We were both in drama class. Our drama teacher set us up, encouraged him to ask me to the prom months before the prom actually happened and we were inseparable after that. 

After a month or so of holding hands, our first kiss was in a lovely old stone church with stained glass windows that happened to be open. St. Mark’s Episcopal Church in St. Albans, where my sister’s wedding was held years later. He told me “You don’t know how to kiss at all.” He explained the process, apparently I got good enough at it to make him happy. 

I was always nervous about beginning a make-out session, but they never went any farther than that. He always read my mind, “Don’t get nervous.” 

Our relationship was easy and fun. We always went on grand and stupid adventures. Climbing trees and exploring things we shouldn’t have. Alan was the love of my life, and died when I was a senior in college.