D. N. Bloom
Remember Love

        "Remember love."  That line from the old tear-
jerker runs through my head as the day goes by.  During 
odd moments, thoughts of my poor pathetic love life flood
my mind.
        I remember my first love.  Jimmy was his name.  He
was a sweet tow-headed youth with cobalt blue eyes.  At
sixteen I thought he was the greatest; actually, more like
the "coolest."  He was moderately intelligent, though more
mechanically inclined.  Shop was his forte.  He was also
athletic, though he was no sports standout.  Just your
average midwestern farm-boy type.
        As for myself, I was "the Girl Most Likely To..."
Most likely to what I'm not sure anymore.
        During my late teens I definitely was Miss Beauty
Queen.  I ran for every title I could find.  I desperately
wanted out of my small farm town.  The idea of being like my
mother, grandmothers and older sisters left me in a seat.  I 
wanted glamour.  I wanted nightclubs.  Debonair men with 
fancy pedigrees.
        "Remember love," the film heroine says on her 
deathbed in the closing shot Remember love.  Remember 
love.  It dances in my brain.  I continue to walk down the wet 
concrete, heading to O'Malley's to join my business
partners for an after-hours drink.  We stand in the crowded
pub as dark wool suits swill beer, watching hands sweep
across the face of a clock telling them all it's time to catch
trains for the warmth of their homes.
           I catch a cab that takes me to my nest in the sky.
92 floors up, perched high above the ground.  "Remember 
love," I whisper, tears in my eyes.  The pot-pie browns in the
microwave.