I remember standing in my driveway that evening after we got back from dinner; her eyes sparkled in the dim light from my truck’s interior as she stood beside it with the door open. I held her hands while we talked about spending Christmas morning with our families, and that we would not see each other until the evening. I told her that I had a Christmas gift for her so she did not have to wait until the following evening. I recall the excitement in her eyes when I handed her the wrapped present with a card attached to the top of the package. She asked me if she could open it right then, and I told her I didn’t mind; however, I recommended that she at least save the card for Christmas morning. She agreed, and she seemed so happy after opening the gift; she hugged me tightly, and we kissed as we held on to each other in the cold night air.
I remember when she was walking away, I wanted to yell out “I love you,” but in that moment, I also remember thinking that there was no reason to rush it. I figured there would be plenty of time to tell her that I loved her, and I remember that she meant more to me than anyone or anything I had ever known. The few seconds it took her to leave my sight may have been the same few seconds in which I experienced the deepest thoughts of my life as I realized the woman of my dreams was right in front of me, and I finally found the person who made me feel complete. I thought about how she was all I wanted as I stood spellbound by everything from the kiss to her eyes. Even after she had driven out of view, I still stood there for several minutes in the cold of night, thinking that she would be the last girl I would ever kiss; I recall being completely all right with this idea, and I hoped she felt the same way. As I walked inside the house, I felt better than I ever had before or since.
—Skyler Waid
It was a Monday afternoon, and I was finally home from track practice. The coach had just told me that I had a negative attitude and should contemplate why I was on the team. My father greeted me in the living room.
“Hi, honey. How was practice?”
"Not good, Dad. Listen, I don’t want to do this anymore. I hate the track team.”
“What do you mean hate?”
“The constant pressure is making me crazy.”
“How so?”
“It’s just not fun anymore.”
“Well, I’ll have to talk to the coach — ”
“No! You’re supposed to be my father, not my coach.”
“I am your father, but I’m sure . . .”
“Just let me do what I want. You’ve had your turn.”
He just let out a sigh and left the room. Later he told me that I was wasting my “God-given abilities.” The funny part was that none of my father’s anger hit me at first. All I knew was that I was free.
My troubles began the summer I was five years old. It was late June . . .
—Trena Isley