First Taste of Summer

Some people crave chocolate.  I crave romance.  For me, its sweeter than sugar, more decadent than fine, french champagne and more satisfying than sex. 


I will never give up on, or outgrow my thirst for romance.  Nurturing, creatively invigorating, self indulgent - it fuels my intimacy, fluffs my daydreams and ignites slumbered fantasies.


It's time I record my compilation of quixotic sparks - if for no other reason then the pure joy of reliving them.

***

It was an unusually sticky summer.  The carefree kind that clings to you way past Labor Day.  It started innocently and ended with an unbridled ache.


His name was Peter.  He had wild auburn hair, freckles splashed across his nose, and an audible and visible gap between his front teeth.


We met on a small island not far from shore that included a boat house, platformed tents, an arts and craft building and an archery field.

He called me "Kid."  He was 2 years older and according to his calculations, 4 years wiser.


He taught me how to sail, how to skip rocks across a low tide and how to slip out of a tent in total darkness.


I in turn taught him how to dance, the rules to Truth or Dare, and the lyrics to James Taylor hits.


Because he was a CIT (councilor in training) we were allowed to roam, unsupervised, for hours.


His enveloping, interlocking fingers tickled my palm as he guided me along a broad stretch of beach and into a lush, wooded pathway that ran behind the boathouse, past the bonfire pit, to the desolate side of the island.


In anticipation of our first solo sail together, he reviewed the responsibilities of being his first mate while I mentally connecting the freckles on his forearms.


Because I didn't know what it was, I never saw it coming.

Veiled in the inherent beauty of a bellowing beech tree - the same tree he engraved our initials in -  he pulled a sun dried strip of braided rope from his back pocket, wrapped it twice around my arm, looped it through... and tugged.


"A double half hitch" he called it - a sailors trustworthy knot.  This is how we'd secure our vessel when the sunset commanded us to dock.


I waited until he noticed I wasn't watching and then I kissed him.


It was my first taste of sweet love. 

It was a quick peck - a bold move on my part.


His mouth dropped open and I laughed.


He let go of his knot and with both arms lifted me so that our eyes were perfectly in line.


"I love you" he said, so softly I didn't recognize his voice, "I will always love you." And then, with an ardent calling, he kissed me.  

As the days drifted into weeks, he filled my head with promises he couldn't keep. He told me - with the stylistic reverence of James Taylor teachings - I'd always be his best friend, I'd be first on his mind and that he'd be there whenever I called.

The change of seasons sent me home again, to my mothers keeping - back to wispy fields, mountain peaks and rolling valleys - while he guarded our glistening shore.

I would visit my father often during our first year apart and he was respectful of the bond first love brings.


The following summer, we rekindled our blaze with an ethereal, starry skied force.


We played until a cold, cruel wind carried me home again.


We played until his secret washed ashore. A spry, not so well behaved, winter, spring and fall friend bleed into my path.

I held onto my pain longer than a young girl should.  The salty, sting of summer seasoned my well groomed, wound.


Despite his deceit, or maybe because of it, we have remained close friends.


And to prove that the world circles in mystifying ways, my daughters first and still boyfriend is Peters first cousins son (pause to digest). 


Peter, or "Sergeant Pepper" as his insignia states, (name changed to protect his privacy) is now a police officer in a neighboring town.


I fantasize about him running my security company, with minimal pay, when he retires in less than 5 years time.


Poetic justice for a hearts first tear.

 fine art, photography, notebooks, collages, and illustrations by afiori


Art by Afiori

Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy

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THEN



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