初恋First love

初戀 是情感巨浪的洶湧，初戀 是情感在熱血中的奔流，初戀 是情感純真的表露，初戀 是一生中永恒的傷痛。

我還能回想起在喧嘩五年級教室的那一刻，柔和的燈光傾瀉在她的秀發上，她轉過臉來，我們四目相對，久久地凝視着。刹那間，我的心靈深處仿佛遭受重擊。這就是我 初戀 時的感覺。

她的名字叫雷切爾，正是這個名字使我虛度了整個中學時光。隻要一看到她的身影我就會心慌意亂，在她面前說話也變的結結巴巴。直到現在我還在想，是否還有人在月光下獨自徘徊在她的窗前，在透過窗戶的昏暗燈光下拉長了影子，就象夏夜裏的飛蟲一樣孤獨無助呢？我對她無任何生理上的渴求但卻癡狂，着迷地愛着她，那種極度興奮的情緒使我簡直都要神魂颠倒了。我越來越變得行爲拙笨，聲音發啞，現在想來就象是一場不可思議的夢幻一樣。這種情感長期焦灼着我，我簡直難以相信記憶怎麽會如此長久地痛苦而又美麗地折磨着我。太美妙了！

當我沿着教堂甬道散步或從學校走出來的時候都希望能看到她的身影，我癡迷的已經到了難以自拔的境地。而她看上去總是那樣神情自若而又怡然。回到家裏，我總是用愛她是不應該的這種理由來安慰自己以減輕痛苦。甚至，當我們都進入青年時代，我還能隐隐地感到她的柔情仍痛苦地煎熬着我。

“成爲關系确定的伴侶”，這意味着我們還缺乏成年人的那種沉穩心态。她是在信奉東正教的猶太人家中長大的，而我家則信奉天主教，這就更使我憧憬美好而又遙遠的未來。不管怎樣我是那樣狂熱地渴望着。記得在一次舞會上，我以護花使者的身份試着去擁抱她，我們的擁抱是她幸福的笑出了聲，這笑聲消除了我所有的疑慮。而我也對自己以前的猶豫不決的想法懊悔不已。

無論如何我都沒想到我對雷切爾的愛毫無結果。我們中學畢業後，她上了大學，我卻應征入伍。當二戰席卷而來的時候，我被派遣到國外。在開始的一段時間裏，我們彼此鴻雁傳情，她的信件成了我那段艱苦而又漫長歲月中生命裏最精彩的部分。曾有一次，她給我寄去了一張身着泳裝的照片，使得我對她的愛癡狂得簡直想入非非了。在接下來的信件中我提出了結婚的請求，但是她的回信卻漸漸稀少且缺乏激情。

我回國後第一件事就是要見見我的雷切爾。她母親打開房門告訴我雷切爾早已不在這住了。她與大學裏的一位學醫的同學結婚了。她母親說“我想，我女兒寫信告訴你了吧。”

在我退役前我接到了她的那封“絕交信”。信中她娓娓道來我們之間不能結合的原因。回首往事，我又很快找到了當時的感覺。雖然在最初的幾個月裏我簡直不想活在這個世上了。但在以後的生活裏，我也象雷切爾那樣找到了自己的人生伴侶，我們彼此永久又深深地愛着，同甘共苦直到今天。

直到現在，在中斷 40 多年之後，我又收到了她的來信。信中說她的丈夫已經去世。她是在路過我居住的這個小鎮時，從昔日的一位共同好友那裏得知我的下落的。我們都同意再見一面。

當時的感覺真是又好奇又激動。因爲在過去的歲月裏我沒有想起過她，隻是一日清晨，她的一個電話又把我帶回塵封的往事。餐桌面前的她令我非常吃驚，駐足在我面前的是一位白發蒼蒼的家庭主婦。難道這就是我日思夜想，夢寐以求的雷切爾嗎？難道這就是相片上身着泳裝，令人賞心悅目的美人魚嗎？

時間的流逝使我們共同回首往事，探求往日的生活。我們就象老朋友那樣愉快地交談着。很快我們就發現彼此都是做爺爺奶奶的人了。

“你還記得這個嗎？”她遞給我一張發黃的紙條，上面是我中學時代爲雷切爾做的一首詩，我又重新浏覽了那拙劣的韻律和呆板的韻腳。她望着我，又把紙條抽回放到皮包裏。好像怕我把它撕掉了一樣。

我也告訴她我對那張美人魚似的照片的感受以及整個戰争我是如何把它帶在身邊的。

“你知道的，那又有什麽用呢？”她說。

“你怎麽知道呢？”我反駁道。

“啊，柯林，那也許是我一生中的偉大壯舉。因爲我有愛爾蘭人的良知，我不想讓你有做猶太人的那種罪惡感的。”

我們的笑聲驚動了鄰桌的人，接下來我們的目光躲躲閃閃，遊離不定。我們以前擁有的彼此凝視的時刻的那種感覺已經消失了，那一刻成了永恒的風景了。

當我把她送入出租車之前，她轉過身來，“我想再看你一眼，告訴你一件事。”我們又一次凝視。“謝謝你曾經如此真摯地愛過我。”我們互相吻着，之後，她便消失在我的視野裏了。

從商店櫥窗的影像裏，我看到了自己——一位老者，晚風習習吹拂着他的白發。我決定步行回家。我仍然感到她的吻灼燒着我的唇。我感到身體異常虛弱，便獨自坐在公園的長椅上。身邊的草木在落日的餘晖中泛着綠意。雖然一切都已經過去了，但卻有一種無形的力量在鼓舞着我，眼前的景色是那樣的美麗以至于興奮得我想高歌，大喊，狂舞。

萬事都有終結，很快這種感覺就過去了。現在，我可以站起身來動身回家了。

A surge of adrenalin, a rush of blood, a thing of innocence and pain that lasts a lifetimeI REMEMBER the way the light touched her hair. She turned her head, and our eyes met, a momentary awareness in thatraucous fifth-grade classroom. I felt as though I’d been struck a blow under the heart. Thus began my first love affair.

Her name was Rachel, and I mooned my way through grade and high school, stricken at the mere sight of her, tongue-tied in her presence. Does anyone, anymore, linger in the shadows of evening, drawn by the pale light of a window-her window-like some hapless summer insect? That delirious swooning, asexual but urgent and obsessive, that made me awkward and my voice crack, is like some impossible dream now. I know I was so afflicted, but I cannot actually believe what memory insists I did. Which was to suffer. Exquisitely.

I would catch sight of her, walking down an aisle of trees to or from school, and I’d become paralyzed. She always seemed so poised, so self-possessed. At home, I’d relieve each encounter, writhing at the thought of my inadequacies. Even so, as we entered our teens, I sensed her affectionate tolerance for me.

“Going steady” implied a maturity we still lacked. Her Orthodox Jewish upbringing and my own Catholic scruples imposed a celibate grace that made even kissing a distant prospect, however fervently desired. I managed to hold her once at a dance - chaperoned, of course. Our embrace made her giggle, a sound so trusting that I hated myself for what I’d been thinking.

At any rate, my love for Rachel remained unrequited. We graduated from high school, she went on to college, and I joined the Army. When World War II engulfed us, I was sent overseas. For a time we corresponded, and her letters were the highlight of those grinding, endless years. Once she sent me a snapshot of herself in a bathing suit, which drove me to the wildest of fantasies. I mentioned the possibility of marriage in my next letter, and almost immediately her replies became less frequent, less personal.

The first thing I did when I returned to the States was to call on Rachel. Her mother answered the door. Rachel no longer lived there. She had married a medical student she’d met in college. “I thought she wrote you,” her mother said.

Her “Dear John” letter finally caught up with me while I was awaiting discharge. She gently explained the impossibility of a marriage between us. Looking back on it, I must have recovered rather quickly, although for the first few months I believed I didn’t want to live. Like Rachel, I found someone else, whom I learned to love with a deep and permanent commitment that has lasted to this day.

Then recently, after an interval of more than 40 years, I heard from Rachel again. Her husband had died. She was passing through town and had learned of my whereabouts through a mutual friend. We agreed to meet.

I felt both curious and excited. In the last few years, I hadn’t thought about her, and her sudden call one morning had taken me aback. The actual sight of her was a shock. This white-haired matron at the restaurant table was the Rachel of my dreams and desires, the supple mermaid of that snapshot?

Yet time had given us a common reference and respect. We talked as old friends, and quickly discovered we were both grandparents.

“Do you remember this?” She handed me a slip of worn paper. It was a poem I’d written her while still in school. I examined the crude meter and pallid rhymes. Watching my face, she snatched the poem from me and returned it to her purse, as though fearful I was going to destroy it.

I told her about the snapshot, how I’d carried it all through the war.

“It wouldn’t have worked out, you know,” she said.

“How can you be sure?” I countered. “Ah, Colleen, it might have been grand indeed - my Irish conscience and your Jewish guilt!”

Our laughter startled people at a nearby table. During the time left to us, out glances were furtive, oblique. I think that what we saw in each other repudiated what we’d once been to ourselves, we immortals.

Before I put her into a taxi, she turned to me. “I just wanted to see you once more. To tell you something.” Her eyes met mine. “I wanted to thank you for having loved me as you did.” We kissed, and she left.

From a store window my reflection stared back at me, an aging man with gray hair stirred by an evening breeze. I decided to walk home. Her kiss still burned on my lips. I felt faint, and sat on a park bench. All around me the grass and trees were shining in the surreal glow of sunset. Something was being lifted out of me. Something had been completed, and the scene before me was so beautiful that I wanted to shout and dance and sing for joy.

That soon passed, as everything must, and presently I was able to stand and start for home.