November 11, 2001
Fondest of Memories
One of my fondest memories comes to me tonight. It is sharp, it stings. It reminds me of what I had, and what I will never again have.
It was last year's December 1.
My hair was a mess. Not only from the blue under-the-bridge hat, but also from the exploits of the day. Anna and Hampton and I assembled the upside down Christmas tree third bell. It was beautiful, a shining example of Dali-esque celebrations. I trimmed it with plastic icecicles. Hampton used enough wire to hold it to the ceiling that it wouldn't come down until March.
I remember fifth bell. I remember Ryan tickling me, maybe, or perhaps me untying his shoe. I remember laughter.
We had two hours of romping about in character at drama, and I saw him out of the corner of my eye in the wings, watching me onstage. Smiling.
The choir sang at the Christmas walk that night. We were freezing, but Ryan and Sarah and I walked over to one of her relative's houses between performances to get apple cider.
It was warm.
I wanted Ryan to put his arm around me, but he didn't.
I sang the solo in our second performance. My voice cut the cold air like a knife, was put on loudspeaker throughout Cleves.
I smiled.
Nine people crowded into Ryan's Honda afterwards, heading over to sing carols on the train. I had to sit on his lap, and the embarassment was worth the warmth he offered, was worth the arms that even then held me tightly.
The train was freezing, our voices were thin. He did not touch me again, and I wondered if it were because of his mother, who sang with us then, or because that was his inclination.
It happened when we crossed cars. My balance poor and the way turbulent, I stumbled. A hand steadied me, just at the small of my back. A shiver ran up my spine. He left it there, ever so softly, when we were standing, singing again. Left it there as we walked back to our seats to enjoy the rest of the ride.
He smiled.
I remember looking out the window at the Christmas lights on the houses, I remember seeing my breath in the car. I remember the smell of his leather jacket.
We went to a movie afterwards. The movie wasn't important. What was important was that we sat down in the frigid theatre and he offered me his arm, and after awhile also kneaded my cold fingers in his.
I bit my lips, watched him bite his. Prayed that he might not kiss me in the theatre, prayed that he would wait and I could have our first kiss somewhere else.
My worry was stifled by the slightest movement, of his face lifting, of his lips touching ever so softly to my forehead.
That moment, that delicate pressure, will always be with me.
I didn't love him then, and wouldn't love him for some time after that. But just then, at that very moment, I knew he was not who I had thought him. I knew he could be exactly what I had never thought him.
He kissed me that night, in the dark of his car, our gloved hands clasped together. I pretended I knew what I was supposed to do. After a while I would learn that I had done exactly that. It was not our sweetest kiss. It was not our sweetest day.
But it was our first day.
And I remember it.
astera at perpetual night