Memory of a Kiss by Bob Johnson

Our life is filled with memories of past events. They are generally categorized by our brain as to the feeling or emotion that was evoked at the time. We can still, to some degree, capture that moment. It may not have the impact or strength that was felt at the moment of happening, but it is real and true.

Deaths, marriages, births, and divorces usually top the list, but many subcategories are included. Accidents or trauma of some kind, victory or defeat at a sporting or competition venue are certainly to be added as are travel experiences and friendship interaction.

Those memories are what make up the past life you have lived. I am saddened by those who, because of a dementia, or memory disease have lost that connection.

I want to tell a story of a past event that had more recently been remembered and renewed.

The years of being a preteen were exciting, educational, and confusing. I was twelve years old, a good student attending the sixth grade. Girls, up to that point, were always just three things; competition, irritation, and gossipers. Most of them were taller than myself and seemed to have something of a maturity I didn’t have.

 Generally, us guys stuck together, excluding the females from any event in which we participated. During past years they would complain to the teachers about our attitude and we were forced to let them play whatever game we were playing. That year, however, the girls could care less about what we were doing. They were busy grouping together, swooning over the newest heart throb, singing some rock and roll song, or comparing clothing and shoes. Things were changing.

I had known Sharon for a long time. She was in the fifth grade and we often walked the same route home from school. Something happened one day as we walked and I experienced “liking” a girl.  She suddenly seemed prettier, smarter, and cleverer. I made an effort to walk on a daily basis with my secret girlfriend. My infatuation continued throughout the winter and well into the next year. Nobody knew of my feelings for a girl and certainly wasn’t going to brag.

Each class room had a valentine’s day party where we exchanged cards. I was surprised to see a card in my homemade box from Sharon. I remember it well. The front display had the proper hearts and frills on it and a beaver was standing on a log. The quote beneath said, “If you don’t want to be my valentine”; I opened up the card and it continued,” just forget the whole dam business.” In that moment I was overwhelmed with a need to thank her for the note. I actually left my class room and all of its hubbub and walked across the hallway to another class. I knocked on the door, asked the teacher if I could speak to Sharon, and thanked her for the card. With that act, the cat was out of the bag. The entire school knew who my sweetheart was. I was okay with that.

We held hands in the playground, but discreetly, and spent the rest of the spring just being close to each other as our age and knowledge of romance would permit. Sharon moved away that summer. I was as heartbroken as any twelve-year-old could be.

She had many relatives in our town and returned for an annual Christmas celebration. I was excited to see her again. She was even prettier than I had remembered. We spent the day together, rode around in wagon filled with hay and sang carols as we went.

It was time to say good-bye and I slowly walked her to her grandmother’s house. We talked about nothing in particular as large flakes of snow began to fall. We reached the driveway and I turned to Sharon. She gave me a big smile, but I had already placed my hands of each side of her face then kissed her. On the lips! I don’t know what prompted me to do such a thing, since I had never kissed a girl before. I quickly turned and left, but not before telling her I would miss her. I floated home. I was a changed person.

That was my distant memory, one that occasionally bubbled up in my consciousness.

I saw her a handful of times throughout the years, knew she had married, divorced, married again, then widowed. Small town information is always there just for the asking.

Last year I attended my community one-hundred-year anniversary. The town slowly grew in population until the early seventies, stopped its growth, and began to decline. People of all ages showed up for the event and the attendee’s interaction was exciting.

I saw Sharon sitting at a large table next to her elderly mother. I sat down next to her. We exchanged pleasantries and information about our life at that time.

I leaned over and spoke to Eleanor, her mother.

“I’m sure she doesn’t remember it, but your daughter was the first girl I ever kissed.” I said quietly.

Eleanor smiled and looked at her daughter. Sharon turned to me and began to speak.

“You mean when we were on the Rosholt’s driveway and it was snowing, and you did this.” She declared and proceeded to cup my face with her hands and kiss me as I had kissed her so many years ago.

My thoughts immediately raced to the fact that she had remembered that one night.

I looked at her and we smiled at each other. We talked a bit more and I moved on to visit others.

A moment of my past became strong and fixed. I knew it now as a memory shared.