I found a post from Writer’s Circle on Facebook – with a 30 day writing challenge. This is day 3: First Love and First Kiss.
There is no enchantment and wonder that compares to your first love. I remember fragments of mine and while I can’t conjure the feeling of the pit of my stomach excitement that I felt at the time, I can remember the idea of it. Like it was yesterday.
Except I was perhaps 12 or 13 years old at the time. I’m a smidge older now.
I was invited by my then best friend for a week at a camp that was hosting a ‘friends week’. Old wooden cabins tiled with moss, a big dining hall / cabin with wooden tables that have seen thousands of kids eat and laugh, cry and fight. Me? I met him. He was a quiet glasses wearing boy, preppy and sweet and I was instantly smitten. Maybe it was the way he blushed whenever we were near each other but from the first day of camp, there was something there. Even 12 year old kids understand these things.
The whole week, we crept a little bit closer to one another. By day four, we were holding hands, inseparable and oh so platonic. Of course, there was a problem with our budding relationship. There always is, isn’t there? He lived in London Ontario. I lived in Toronto. Neither of us could drive.
On the last night at camp, there was a dance. I was so excited and my friends and I dressed up as best as we could considering none of us brought clothes suited to a dance. But we tried to primp and polish in the hopes that we would be asked to dance by the boy of our choice. God forbid we should do the asking, but it was 1980 something. Par for the course.
I dared to hope for more. I hoped that not only would we dance all the slow songs together but that my new love would kiss me before the night was over. Like Cinderella, I kept waiting and waiting, all through the evening, for him to ask me outside. He remained ever close to me but retaining that initial shyness. The very thing that had drawn me to him was becoming very problematic. It was now or never. My girlfriend and I would be getting on a bus in the morning and going home.
After the fourth slow song and as he led me back to a seat and offered to go get us something to drink, I couldn’t take it anymore. I just burst into tears and ran from the hall, the sounds of “Jeremiah was a Bullfrog” dancing me outside instead of him.
I don’t remember how I got there but I found myself sitting on the porch of the older girl’s cabin. And suddenly he was there, standing on the step in front of me, in the pitch dark. He put his hands on both sides of my face and he kissed me. It was the sweetest kiss, as much for the anticipation as for the kiss itself and I have never forgotten it. Or him.