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Real love isn’t for adults. Adults are too jaded. Real love is six.

When I was six, I was in love with a girl named Penny. She had short dark hair and green eyes. I don’t know why I fell in love with her. I think it was just her presence, but I’m not sure what that means.

Nothing she did was special. She talked with other girls, giggled, played hopscotch. She’d look at a picture book. She’d pick daisies. Everything about her was special.

I didn’t know what to say to her so I said nothing. I played baseball. I played tag. I watched TV. But I never approached her. I was scared she wouldn’t like me.

Sadly, I grew up. She probably did, too.

I fell into a different sort of love, but the girl rejected me. I don’t remember her name but the experience made me bitter, angry. This happens to everyone and always has the same effect. It happened to you, didn’t it?

I got married anyway, to someone or other. We had a kid. I worked when times were good, struggled other times. She divorced me. I get by.

What might have been? I don’t know. Maybe if I’d gone up to her. “My name is Arnold,” I could have said.

Then she’d have said something. Maybe she would have told me her name, as if I didn’t know it. Maybe she would have smiled. Maybe we would have held hands and sat in the grass and watched the clouds together. I don’t know.

But I do know this. Real love is six. That’s your chance. If you are over six, you’ve missed it.