The boy and his ribbon

My heart stopped with how perfect she was. How smart. How kind. How brave. I’d never look at the colour blue again without thinking of her. I’d never hold another ribbon again without wanting to hold her.

Up until that moment, I’d kept a hardness inside me.

I’d treated her dearly, but I’d kept a piece of myself tucked away. But there, as she repeated the alphabet and started to excel me in every way, she nicked the fortress around my stupid heart, and I had no choice but to give it to her.

She was my Della, my ribbon, and I couldn’t stop myself as I placed the knife back into its holder in my boot, crawled across the floor, and sat beside her.

She beamed and pointed at the letter S on the screen.

The one of four I knew thanks to Mclary and his compass lesson.

I repeated along with her and the stupid cartoons. “S is for snake. S is for snow. S is for a bright yellow sun!”

We lost track of time as we soaked up the knowledge gifted by ugly puppets. I didn’t cringe at the childish songs. I didn’t roll my eyes at the baby talk. I put aside my ego and imprinted every letter into my brain.

I did it for me but mainly I did it for her.

Because eventually, I would need to be more than the illiterate boy who’d carried her away in a backpack. I’d have to be a role model, counsellor, and friend. And I was determined to be a friend who could read and write.

As the night wore on and my eyes scratched and head throbbed, I glanced at Della, who’d turned drowsy and soft.

Normally, she was the one who instigated affection.

But that night, I was the one who dragged her droopy, sleepy body close and kissed her cheek. I nuzzled her sweet-smelling hair and murmured, “You’re the one teaching me now, Della Ribbon. Please don’t ever stop.”