And it was her shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair, free of curls and free of flaws, straight as the trail of a million raindrops.
And it was her green eyes, open and swallowing the gymnasium’s freshly waxed floor.
And it was her small budding breasts, waiting for the season of teenage menstruation to bust then burst from her bosom.
And it was her naked legs, those bare legs falling from those red shorts. The fluorescence from the rafters gave her pale thighs the glow of an Old Testament virgin.
But her right thigh was marred perfectly by a birthmark, which resembled a rosebud more than a spot of pigmented skin. I marveled at that mark. It became a strange emblem, a secret mark that, because of its placement on her thigh, showed itself only in gym class, only in those polyester red shorts. Whenever her eyes were away, at the free-throw line or pulling her body heavenward at the curl-up bar, I would gaze at it – the contrast of concentrated color against pale flesh, an island pinned to forever, surrounded by a sea of pale milk.
My crush, that infatuation, was not hatched out of a wicked desire; despite the hormones that were beginning to course through my capillaries, I didn’t want to fracture her shell of virginity. I sought only simple pleasures seeded by pure motives.
I wanted fingertips like feathers
to skim the placid surface
of that pale ocean.
Touching: an exchange of electrical impulses
foreign flesh to foreign flesh
and blood rushes
to the surface
and neurons burn as stars eclipsing death.
Breaking my impossible vision was the squealing of sneakers from the gym floor. Freshly waxed, it glimmered like a vast sliver of quivering water, but the gleam would eventually diminish under the soles of children,
children running
children dodging
children jumping
bodies moving,
eventually erasing the sheen.
Last week Julie Richards, now 29, accepted my Facebook request, but I don’t know why. I don’t even know why I bothered sending the request. I suppose I had the irrational idea of catching up and confessing the foolish feelings that occupied my life that one summer. But as that confession took form, as I plotted its points and outlined its shape, it became more absurd, idiotic. Throughout our school years we never spoke, we maybe exchanged glances in a crowded hall a few times. Our only bond was “class of ’97,” which, perhaps, was also her sole reason for accepting my request.
I didn’t write on her wall, nor did I send her a message. I didn’t want to trespass into her life, even if that intrusion took the form of a disposable electronic message. But I did look through her photo albums. I saw her romantically embracing a tanned, handsome man. A few pages later I saw her wedding photos, the groom being the same tanned man. I also saw sunny vacation photos. And babies who had become children. I saw all the moments she wanted to capture forever. And then I found a picture of Julie, alone, just her face, center frame. The hair, the eyes, the lips – it was Julie, but it’s strange how time impacts the face. The essence remains unchanged, but it’s those subtle nuances that remind you the end is getting closer; it’s taking form in your bones and on your flesh. It’s the eyes and the flesh around them. Something changes. It’s that star eclipsing death.
Lost in the pages of my sophomore yearbook there is a collage of photos. Pictures of cluttered hallways. Pictures of high school dances. There’s a photograph, taken during lunchtime, in which Julie’s face is colored bashful. She appears to be avoiding the camera, but her eyes are staring into it, those giant green eyes swallowing the life on the other side of the lens. And I’m there too. I’m in the back, several tables away, and I’m looking in Julie’s direction, but the camera was too far. My face is a blur, out of focus, barely recognizable. But I’m there.
On the first day of phys ed class the freshly waxed gymnasium floor shined so brilliantly I could nearly see a perfect reflection of my face. But children passed through, people passed over that surface and the shine dulled, the luster lessened, and at the end of the semester I saw nothing of my face when I stared into the floor. It was a blur. Unrecognizable.
The passage of time changes everything, and it fulfills its purpose in doing so. I wanted to write Julie, but not to confess a childhood delusion, but to paint a picture of my perceptions, share that image with her, and determine if the shadows created by my existence – our existence, however disparate – are unique, or shared through some strange chord that resonates under everything.
The forces of age have changed your body, Julie. The spoils of children have displaced the love for your husband, who now works to support a dream that is no longer his own. He crunches numbers and disconnects from conference calls while you toil in fields of daffodils and dandelions. When the moon is high and the children are sleeping, your husband’s putting away his last call, but where are you? What are you?
I remember that rosebud pinned in pigment to your thigh, that strange emblem from nervous youth. Our bodies have changed. Our faces, aged. But we’re still strangers, treading floors that fail to reflect.
xx
Breaking my impossible vision was the squealing of sneakers from the gym floor. Freshly waxed, it glimmered like a vast sliver of quivering water, but the gleam would eventually diminish under the soles of children,
children running
children dodging
children jumping
bodies moving,
eventually erasing the sheen.
Last week Julie Richards, now 29, accepted my Facebook request, but I don’t know why. I don’t even know why I bothered sending the request. I suppose I had the irrational idea of catching up and confessing the foolish feelings that occupied my life that one summer. But as that confession took form, as I plotted its points and outlined its shape, it became more absurd, idiotic. Throughout our school years we never spoke, we maybe exchanged glances in a crowded hall a few times. Our only bond was “class of ’97,” which, perhaps, was also her sole reason for accepting my request.
I didn’t write on her wall, nor did I send her a message. I didn’t want to trespass into her life, even if that intrusion took the form of a disposable electronic message. But I did look through her photo albums. I saw her romantically embracing a tanned, handsome man. A few pages later I saw her wedding photos, the groom being the same tanned man. I also saw sunny vacation photos. And babies who had become children. I saw all the moments she wanted to capture forever. And then I found a picture of Julie, alone, just her face, center frame. The hair, the eyes, the lips – it was Julie, but it’s strange how time impacts the face. The essence remains unchanged, but it’s those subtle nuances that remind you the end is getting closer; it’s taking form in your bones and on your flesh. It’s the eyes and the flesh around them. Something changes. It’s that star eclipsing death.
Lost in the pages of my sophomore yearbook there is a collage of photos. Pictures of cluttered hallways. Pictures of high school dances. There’s a photograph, taken during lunchtime, in which Julie’s face is colored bashful. She appears to be avoiding the camera, but her eyes are staring into it, those giant green eyes swallowing the life on the other side of the lens. And I’m there too. I’m in the back, several tables away, and I’m looking in Julie’s direction, but the camera was too far. My face is a blur, out of focus, barely recognizable. But I’m there.
On the first day of phys ed class the freshly waxed gymnasium floor shined so brilliantly I could nearly see a perfect reflection of my face. But children passed through, people passed over that surface and the shine dulled, the luster lessened, and at the end of the semester I saw nothing of my face when I stared into the floor. It was a blur. Unrecognizable.
The passage of time changes everything, and it fulfills its purpose in doing so. I wanted to write Julie, but not to confess a childhood delusion, but to paint a picture of my perceptions, share that image with her, and determine if the shadows created by my existence – our existence, however disparate – are unique, or shared through some strange chord that resonates under everything.
The forces of age have changed your body, Julie. The spoils of children have displaced the love for your husband, who now works to support a dream that is no longer his own. He crunches numbers and disconnects from conference calls while you toil in fields of daffodils and dandelions. When the moon is high and the children are sleeping, your husband’s putting away his last call, but where are you? What are you?
I remember that rosebud pinned in pigment to your thigh, that strange emblem from nervous youth. Our bodies have changed. Our faces, aged. But we’re still strangers, treading floors that fail to reflect.
xx
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