He was tall, dark, and really quite handsome. He was a walking cliche. His name was Dean Henry Jones. He was also the love of my life. There was one problem though. To this day he does not know that I exist. It does not matter that we went to grade school together from the very beginning. To Dean, I am just another girl.
We both grew up in a suburb of Detroit called Eastpointe. It is such a tiny city that if you really wanted to, you could drive the perimeter of it in a half hour tops. The city is so small that part of the school district spills over into the neighboring suburb of Warren. Warren is one of the biggest cities in Michigan. This is where I grew up. Had I lived just a few blocks west, I would have gone to a completely different school district growing up.
It was not until we shared a college class together that he noticed me. He commented that I looked familiar but was uncertain why.
"We grew up together," I reminded him, "We went to school together since we were four."
"Oh my goodness. I am so sorry. Since the accident, I do not remember anybody. I barely remember my own parents some days."
It is true that he was in a very bad accident when we were sophomores in high school. He was on his way to school when a drunk driver flew through the intersection and spun his car to the other side of the road. Fortunately there were no other cars coming because it could have been much worse. Dean is very lucky to be living to this day but his memory needs constant work.
Dean and I graduated ten years ago. When I walked across the stage all those years ago, I never would have guessed that I would be where I am today.
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