My Parents' Romance

My parents met in high school. It’s only natural that they look at me and wonder what’s taking me so long. I’ve heard the stories and envy the simplicity of it all, the prelude to a marriage devoid of fights, twenty five years of holding hands like it’s the first time and still inspiring goofy smiles four kids later. I believe it started at church one Sunday when my dad leaned far back in his Sunday School chair to appear nonchalant to the new girl in town. Later, it’s been said they met up at a dance and she flattered him by asking if he played basketball for their high school team. The song was over but they kept dancing, I’ve heard, and my mom must have smiled to herself, fully aware that her basketball skills surpassed those she had called attention to. At least that’s what I gather.
Somewhere in the story is a roller rink, a genius invention for boys too cowardly to hold a girl’s hand otherwise. I know this because I’ve tested the waters in this setting myself. I went last year to roller skate with some new friends, determined to impress a girl there, but wound up in the emergency room with a broken wrist that took months and two surgeries to heal. Had I not needed urgent medical care, the object of my admiration may not have noticed me at all. As it was, my interests soon changed and I would try always to position myself on her right side so that enviable handholding could remain a distinct possibility uninhibited by the cast on my right arm.
I know my aunt had some interest in my dad, for a day or two at least. It’s strange when I think about it, when they spend Christmas morning or Thanksgiving dinner passing presents and gravy boats between them. But it was nothing even then, and time I’m sure has all but erased much memory at all of girlish crushes or the sisterly competition I’ve heard ensued. She offered to teach my mom to flirt to assert her superiority in the matter. When she’d invited Dad over, Mom popping popcorn on the stove in an outfit he claims to remember was a more tempting prospect than anything the younger sister had to offer. And on they went.
I’m sure I’ve heard all about the first date. Undoubtedly it was a group date and involved miniature golf or something similar. Had I the means I would like to watch it in all its awkward glory. I would like to see the first time he tried to hold her hand but ended up flexing his fingers and beating himself up like I’ve done more times than I recall. I’d like to see my mom come home, a ball of girlish nerves, and pace her bedroom to keep hold of fresh memories. I’d skip the first and subsequent kisses, and find the scene where they sit on the large front steps of my grandparents’ house, discussing marriage at the age of sixteen. And I could swallow my pride and resist the urge to roll my eyes, knowing how it ends.
I have a feeling it was not unlike a quirky romantic comedy, or a Wonder Years episode. And maybe it wasn’t too far removed from my own experience. I wondered in high school if I’d repeat history like my older brother had. But I had my share of finger brush-by’s and almost-kisses. And it’s better to imagine it. My dad insists still that his nightly popcorn ritual harks back to that afternoon he smelled it from the kitchen and saw Mom standing there. And I grew up with that, snagging a handful of popcorn from his bowl as he walked upstairs to bed, leading the woman with whom he’s still as in love with as ever. And I’ll get there, I guess.