You came to work for us one summer. We lived on an old ranch, and though I was too young to help in the fields you'd let me follow you around when I had nothing better to do. As if anything was better than being with you.

You taught me about weed control and how to drive the tractor trailer. You called me pretty and put flowers in my hair. I used to complain that it was too hot, you complained that it was too quiet. You sang my favorite songs with me and when I told you I wanted to be a rock star, you said you'd be my first autograph.

Summer ended and you went back to school, working hard to finish early. I was so happy when you came back I ran to open the door when you knocked. You'd spend your lunch breaks with me and give me the last cookie. You knew I loved sweets.

As we got older you came around less frequently. You said you didn't want work to interfere with school, but you had another reason. You brought her to meet us once. She smiled at me, with her hand on your shoulder. He's mine, it said. I could tell, even at that age.

That summer was the last time I saw you. You'd finished your credits for college, and received an offer with a large firm miles away. I didn't tell you how much I was going to miss you, but you knew, didn't you? You came to say goodbye. Dad clapped you on the shoulder, and said you were the hardest worker he'd ever had. Mom gave you a hug, and said she appreciated all the help around the house. When it was my turn you brushed my chin, called me your best girl, (I'll never forget that wink) and then you got in the car and left. Did you know you forgot to wave?

Ironically, I never knew you as more than a friend; and yet, I can't help but measure every other guy against you. Why is it that when I imagine the perfect boy, I see your goofy, lop-sided smile? The same one you would make when I put bows in your hair.

I still have the pictures. I cradle them in my hands like fragile flowers; I don't want the edges to crumble. I'm afraid that the slightest crease will ruin the memories.

Do you still think of me? I'd like to think you do. I like to think that you're not married and that you pause before eating the last cookie. I know you had to leave, but part of me still hopes that one day you'll come back. Maybe one day when the summer sun peeks through my window, I'll hear you knocking. I want you to know I'll still run to open the door.