Day 3 of 30 Day Writing Challenge: Your first love and kiss
It was a kiss of delightful surprise. In that vacuum of wonder after that tiny *pop* of something I’m sure physics can explain, I felt the universe confirm that we were meant for eachother. I don’t remember the exact story at the time of the first kiss. That’s not important.
What is important is that my First Love was Story. It found Story through my mother’s voice as she read out loud, on the television, on the street, in my dreams.
I loved how it fueled me and how alive it was, like a beautiful wild thing. I couldn’t possibly keep or hold it. I needed to lift it up and throw it into the air like a carrier pigeon. It would reach someone, surely it would. But I had to learn how.
No, that’s a lie. I didn’t learn anything. There was no learning to it there was just doing. The me then had no doubt or hesitation. There was nothing but the volition of the Universe: Child, tell us.
I used my words. But my words are not the words of grown people. I told them plainly my story. Their faces, eyes crinkling in humor beaming with delight. They talked back to me in their non-sensical grown people words, tones of agreement and laughter. But it was all wrong! I was not telling them something funny. They didn’t understand even though they acted like they did.
Child, tell us.
I do. I share the Story but you dont hear it.
I attempted to frame the Story a different way. It was a crayon, dark blue. Most certainly a Crayola. With supreme confidence I set down lines and swirls and dashes and stipple covering the peice of scrap paper.
There was a point, I recall, where the hand presses too hard and the strokes grow thick and layered with purpose and urgency. Eventually the scrawling slowed as the conclusion spelled itself out. There was a dense slick of blue dominating a corner of the paper -maybe it was water. Yes, water, I think. The once conical point of the crayon had worn down nearly flat. When I lift my hand, the tip of the crayon disengages from the veneer of wax underneath with a tiny snap. I even felt the tick of separation in my fingers.
And there was the Story.
It was a kiss of delightful surprise. In that vacuum of wonder after that tiny *pop* of something I’m sure physics can explain, I felt the universe confirm that we were meant for eachother.
I don’t remember the exact story at the time of the first kiss. That’s not important