I was four-years-old when Colin proposed. It was snack time and he casually offered me a celery stick and a ring from the toy box.
"Let's get married, everyone else is doing it," he said.
"Okay," I responded. "But let me eat my snack first."
The playground wedding was set for the same day underneath the metal monkey bars. It was brief and bizarre, a copy of what we saw from The Little Mermaid without the ship and sea witch.
"Now you're married forever," the girl who presided over the ceremony said.
"Forever?" I asked, as panic set in. I hated the word. "Forever" meant, well, forever. It meant a lifetime. I had already cried enough when my goldfish Gilligan died and my dad said he'd be in Fish Heaven forever. I wasn't prepared to handle a world where Gilligan was gone but I was married to Colin forever.
As snack time ended, I gave Colin back the ring, but he refused to accept it.
"It's yours," he said with a shrug. "You can keep it forever."
The next day, Colin moved away and I never saw him again.