I fell in love for the first time when I was thirteen.
My love was older than I was, a grown man and not a little girl. Handsome, brilliant, and articulate, he was quiet where I was a loud, thoughtful where I was impulsive. He had the respect of his family and friends, and though his job took him far, far from Pleasant Hills, I never ceased to yearn to be with him.
This yearning took me on unexpected paths. My first novel, written furtively when I was only sixteen, was inspired by my love even though I'd changed names, events, and setting. I began reading books I thought he might have enjoyed, so that I, too, would be as strong, as intelligent, as knowledgeable and wise as my love. I dressed in ways that seemed logical and fitting for one who might walk at his side, and I tried to live up to his example in my schooling and my life.
Eventually I realized that, yearn though I might, nothing would come of this passion. I grew up as all people do, and my feelings changed from the desperate, painful heat of a first love to the warm, steady glow of affection. I would fall in love again, marry someone else, and move on with my life, but thanks to my love's influence, a corner of my heart would always be his whether he knew it or not.
This first love died today, or at least the mortal shell that housed him did. But his legacy endures. And though we never met, he shaped my life, my work, and way of looking at the world in ways I never could have imagined on that long ago day in 1973.
Sleep well, Mr. Nimoy.
Thank you.
12:00 PM PT: So honored to be on the rec list. Thanks, everyone.