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Dear Henry,

Wow. It’s been a year already, and here we are. It’s your birthday again. Happy seventeenth.

Do you remember last year’s party? We had a barbeque at your house, and watched that Saw movie. I had nightmares for three weeks afterwards. You were in some of them, but I can’t recall what happened anymore.

I almost wore the same outfit I wore that day today, but then I remembered, and put on a different shirt. Same jeans, though, the ones with the sharpie stain on the left knee and paint marks on cuffs.

That was right before we became an official couple. I remember asking you what you wanted for your birthday, and you said, “A hundred hugs.”

And then you changed your mind and said you wanted a hundred kisses instead, but I told you fifty hugs equal one kiss, so you would only get two.

You said that would be just fine.

We were in that flirt-flirt stage, as you so eloquently put it.

Can you remember the summer before tenth grade? That’s two years ago. I think we were friends, and though we promised to hang out, nothing ever happened.

How about the summer before ninth? I hated your guts then. I hated you for what you did to me. I hated you because of our stupid middle school relationship.

But I especially hated you because even as a kid I couldn’t keep you off my mind. In Civics class there was a poster of Prince Henry behind me, and every day it reminded me of you. Funny how I didn’t notice it until we broke up. I think back to how we broke up for the first time and wasted two years of high school, when we could have—

How about the summer before that? You called me almost every single day, and we would talk for hours. I loved the attention you gave me. I loved you. I still love you.

I didn’t know you the summer before that one, so it isn’t important, unless I can fabricate memories to fill its Henry-less vacancy.

The memories are bliss, Henry. I remember those lazy afternoons, reclining on our favorite couch, saying nothing, letting the silence envelope us. Those were the best times. They sift through my brain even now.

I miss playing Scrabble with you. I miss beating you with the word ‘zit’. I would joke that it was the only time I liked zits, and you would say it didn’t matter because I didn’t have any. Then you would smile, make a face at me, and lean over to kiss me on the cheek.

How about the hours we spent driving around in your truck? We would play rock-paper-scissors to see who would pick the soundtrack for the day. You liked Bon Jovi; I listened to Radiohead. Then gasoline prices went up and your job at the Laundromat didn’t pay too well, so we started taking walks instead, and those were good, too, just holding hands…

I love holding hands. I love the feel of yours in mine, mine in yours, declaring to the entire world that you are mine, and mine only.

You would call me at eleven after you finished your homework and we would talk for hours until my mom came in, yelling about phone bills, sleep deprivation, and cell phone radiation. It’s a wonder we never ran out of things to talk about.

But I’m getting terribly off subject. What can I possibly get you, Henry? What do you want for your birthday? I have lots of money from tutoring rich, spoiled brats, but I can’t think of anything to buy.

You got me a dozen orange roses for my birthday. They were orange because I told you I didn’t want them unless they were, and you actually ordered them specially for me. I still have the petals in the empty box of chocolates from Christmas, on top of all the letters you sent me while I was away.

I’m sorry I had to