In the summer of 1976 our country was celebrating its Bicentennial. Summer was endless and the scant summer breezes were laden with honeysuckle and jasmine. The days were long and filled with infinite possibilities. It was that summer that I discovered love for the first time or maybe it found me.
We had been friends for a year or so but I began to notice that his eyes held mine more than before. He found more reasons to drop by to see me or call me on the phone. Our friends were the ones to actually give name to the new feeling we felt stirring between us. They called it love. We would deny it aloud and ponder it in silence. Together we rode our bikes, waded into the creek with mud oozing gently between our toes, and spoke of tomorrows yet to come.
Finally the word between us was given voice. On that night, the night that our country celebrated its Bicentennial, he walked me home from the fireworks. Our conversation was off-hand about nothing in particular yet seeming to communicate much. Suddenly, as we approached my door we stopped. The words stopped. The moments suddenly refracted like a prism with a bright hue at the corners of reality as he leaned over and whispered, “I want to kiss you. Don’t laugh.” We did and I didn’t.
Just like summer gently fades to autumn and then to winter, my first love eventually gave way to new seasons in my life. Life and love were redefined and better defined. The years have come and gone but I still look back at the innocence of that first kiss and remember a time when I thought that love would always be as sweet and endless as a summer day.
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