Her – River and Celia Underland

She lolled in the corner of the assembly room. Even at seven I knew she was special. A breath of summer air. She was taller than anyone in the room, but she didn’t speak. As if speaking were beneath her. Older than me, she just stood there in the corner, still and serious, like she knew more than us. Aloof. I imagined that to her we were just little boys with little minds.

I still remember that first day.

After that, she was always there.

It wasn’t long before she became a childhood obsession. I watched her. For weeks. For months. Years even. My primary school memories consist of Johnny Rocket and the beetle racing Marvs. And her. Mostly her. I liked the way she moved when the window was open. The way light seemed to pass through her. She kind of shimmered. Her walk was a dance and her arms seemed to sway in time with some soundless tune. Sometimes, during the morning pledge, I would open one eye just to watch her sway. I felt lucky to have caught a glimpse. Lucky to be in the same room as her. I got told off more times than I can count for drifting through fields with her by my side, the wind streaming through her hair.

Time moved forward—always forward—but my love for her never wavered. One day, I knew I would find the courage to speak. To tell her how I felt.

I never touched her. Not really. But once, when we were clearing the hall after end-of-term assembly, my hand accidentally brushed the bottom of her skirt. Just the hem. Nothing more. It felt sacred. She didn’t speak. Just carried on moving, not even a glance in my direction. I never told anyone that. Funny how you remember.

As I grew older and freedoms became more frequent, I saw her more often. At school. In town. In the supermarket. At the square on celebration days. Somehow, she was always close by, like she’d been waiting for me to grow up. Or catch up. I wasn’t sure which. I don’t think I’m sure even now.

I wasn’t the only one, though. Other boys loved her too. I would watch them stealing glances, their eyes filled with longing. I felt the grip of jealousy deep in my stomach, but somehow managed to push it down. After all, she didn’t belong to me. She was a fantasy, and her beauty was there for all to see. What could I do? Just a pimply teen in love with a girl too good for him. Punching above my weight, my father would have said, had he known. Maybe a part of me liked it that way. Something to admire. To focus on without investment. A dream that could never be.

I don’t know when it changed. When she stopped being a figure in the corner and became something else. Something more.

I don’t remember the first time we talked either. It was such a long time ago, but we did. And then we would meet in the town hall garden. The gardenias were beautiful in the summer and her hair would flare in strips of gold as we watched the koi darting in and out of the pond.

I brought her home once, after high school graduation. I remember the way my father stood straighter when she appeared. And the way his voice deepened when he spoke about her. I remember thinking: everyone loves her, but I knew her first.

We took our vows. My whole family was there.

Life moved on quickly.

She was there when I trained. When I marched. She watched me sweat and bruise and break. Sometimes, when I didn’t know what we were doing, I would look at her. She didn’t look back. But it gave me peace.

She was there. In every photo. Every speech. Every silence. Every grave we dug.

“She would be proud”, they said.

And I believed them.

At least, I think I did.

When I came home, she was everywhere. Hung in windows. Waving from rooftops, dangling by the hands of other men.

She hadn’t changed, but I had.

I still feel something when I see her.

Something like reverence.

Something like regret or a death.

Sometimes, late at night, I wonder if she remembers me.

If she even knows how many of us loved her.

And sometimes, if I let myself, I still believe she was real.