In the Classroom

It was a strange feeling, surreal almost, returning to that room. 

Brett and I are taking part in a marriage class through my church, held in one of the classrooms of my old high school--the same classroom that once belonged to my mother. It's where she taught us History,  Spanish, Home Ec., and a host of other subjects. In a strange way, it's where Brett and I fell in love.

As we sat in the class last night, my arm brushed against his atop the small formica table; and that instantly brought me back to sophomore American History, where we sat together at the table in the front row on the far right. I would purposely bend my elbow his direction while writing, hoping to brush against his left arm. Sometimes, while I was taking notes, our pinkies would intertwine for just a second, sending shivers down my spine. 

It's funny now that we're taking a marriage class in that very same room. I caught myself glancing out the very same windows, into the Memorial Garden, watching the clock hung on the same nail between the windows. I faced the same white board where my mom would draw modern art versions of the state of Minnesota when I was in seventh grade. It was the same classroom Brett and I sat at the back left table during Civics and filled out our extra credit work--deep in competition for the higher grade. Nine years ago we were just a couple of kids in that classroom, convinced we knew what it meant to love. Heck, maybe we really did. 

I think Brett knew he was going to marry me before he even asked me to be his girlfriend. He was always so sure about us being able to make it, even when I wasn't--even when I didn't want us to make it. It's like he had already looked into our future; saw our wedding day, full of pink bow ties and calla lilies; peered through the kitchen window of our little brown house and caught us slow dancing; and he just knew, even at 15 years old, that we would get a happily ever after. 

And you know what, I'm glad he did.