Pondering on the beauty of youthful innocence, I slip into nostalgia. That familiar and haunting bittersweet feeling wells up from … where? Somewhere in the gut, or the heart — somewhere in the core. It’s beautiful and sad and cherished and piercing. It hurts, but it’s so lovely, intense, but far away. I can’t hold it — the feeling is fleeting, but I can still see that adventure in my mind: I was 11 years old in a warm, autumn San Diego night, dark backyard, grand Jade plants in green and brown shadows, warm orange glow from the living room spilling out onto the patio, soft cool grass. And Tara. Brunette, tanned and wavy-haired 11 year-old Tara. I don’t remember much from that night, other than that brief and wonderful time she and I were so near to each other:
We were standing close in the dark of the yard. Then unexpectedly ‘What is she doing?’ I wonder nervously, excitedly; my soul singing as I realize ‘She’s grabbing me, pulling me!’, and somehow we are down on the grass and she’s wrapping her arm around me and our heads are close. ‘What’s happening, what’s she doing?!’ and her fingers push the collar of my blue Racer jacket over my mouth, and she kisses me on the lips through the fabric. Confused, nervous, shocked and thrilled! Excited and shy 11-year old nerves firing erratically as we lie on soft giggling grass.
Yet in a flash of chestnut-colored hair it’s over, just one kiss through the collar and then my grandmother calling me inside because it’s late and we are driving away tomorrow, away back to Milwaukee. Away from this newly discovered, heart-pounding enchantment. This pure and sweet, breathtaking, unfamiliar adventure. Never to see her wavy, chestnut hair again …
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