Memories are all we have and all we are. They are fragile things and we are fragile hosts for such precious treasures. Each life ended is a tragedy - a lifetime’s worth of unique experience snuffed out in an instant. I keep mine safe, tending them often to check that nothing has faded or been lost. I hold them carefully above the relentless tides of time’s arrow even as those same tides slowly drown me. For as long as I live, my memories will stay fresh and vital.
The written word can never really pass the fullness of the past remembered to another. You will fill the gaps in my narrative with your own experience - the pictures in your mind will not truly match the pictures in mine. But perhaps you will read these words and see something of what I saw; feel something of what I felt. And so, maybe, some small part of this memory which means so much to me will live on in you.
I was at a concert in a field on the outskirts of the small town where I grew up. A mix of cars were parked in a snaking line along the country road to one side - most of us could drive by then. The band was local and not much older than me. The singer sometimes missed the high notes. The guitarist fumbled from riff to riff, his solos falling a half beat behind the drummer. The bass player had some talent and the drummer kept it simple and on time. They were very loud. We could only hear the steady thrumming of the petrol generator feeding the equipment between songs. Loud was good enough for us. The steady drum beat and base line was good enough. We just wanted to move, to meet and to dance.
I was old enough to buy alcohol legally, but only just. I was only a little drunk that night. I’d deliberately kept within my limits. My coming of age meant that drinking was no longer illicit and not as fun as it had been - no longer a game of dare with the thrilling risk of getting caught. Adulthood, and all the permissions and freedoms that came with it, still felt odd. It didn’t quite fit. Like a new uniform, but for life instead of school. I needed to grow into it.
I was drunk enough to be confident, my inhibitions firmly suppressed. I was sober enough to be myself.
We were all crammed full of potential - it spilled from us, greedy for new ideas and opportunities. We had almost no life experience to sate its impatient hunger so it pulled us, demanding that we try new things, meet new people. The protective bubble of childhood held us back, wrapping possessively and snugly around us, stubbornly resisting our efforts to burst out. That bubble could keep us safe for just a few more weeks before it would be forced to relent and set us free, leaving us to face the future alone but, at last, on our own terms.
We thought we knew it all. We thought it was our time and our world. A world just waiting for us to step forward and fill it with our ideas and energy. A world for us to change. A problem for us to solve.
God, I was happy then. Every day was a gift to be unwrapped. Every day held something new, something that I did for the first time. It was glorious. I thought I would always feel that way. I miss the careless optimism of the young - the unshakable belief that life will be good and full and safe. The lifespan ahead unthinkably long compared to the life already lived. If only we could go back to those unspoiled times. Revisit ourselves as were were in the full flush of youth and health, even for a day.
My teenaged body was tireless - I could run for hours and swim an ocean. I slept deeply every night and woke rested and ready for anything. My mind was fiercely bright and full to the brim with an education just completed. My earnestly held principles were untarnished by contact with the adult world and all its ugly compromise.
The field was beautiful: the grass green and vibrantly alive; thick and lush forest surrounding it on three sides. The late summer evening was gracefully giving way to a warm, dry and cloudless night. The sun was huge and red at the horizon, visibly sinking below the tree-tops. The sky was full of colours - burnt umber around the sun picking out warm orange rimmed clouds with a darkening deep purple-blue overhead. The stars were not yet brave enough to try to compete. The failing light made everything glow - a gorgeous red-shift picking out new and strange tones against the long shadows.
The first time I saw her, I did not know her. She went to the private all-girls school on the other side of town. I was at the comprehensive. We had lived in the same town for our whole lives, but our paths had never crossed.
We had both just finished our final school year. We waited nervously for our final exam results - our passes to life’s next stage; to independence. If we got our grades.
The light made her skin look alive - warmth and shadow shifting as she spun heedlessly around. I knew I wanted her from the instant I saw her. I fell for her in the way only a teenager can - completely and immediately.
She danced wildly with crazy energy - arms everywhere, jumping and stepping as if she hated repeating a move. She was chaos given human form, exuberant and hilarious. She loved it. She needed space around her or people were bumped, struck and sometimes kicked by a flailing limb. Her laughing apologies disarmed any anger. Her smile was like ice-water on a sticky summer day. It cut through everything and left you refreshed and wanting more.
Without exaggeration, she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
She was tall, nearly as tall as me. A black string necklace with a too-big metal pendant swung around with her movement drawing the eye as it caught the light. Sometimes it nestled between her breasts, sometimes it was flung out at an unlikely angle by her constantly shifting momentum. Her legs were long and tanned - the left was scuffed with sandy dirt and a hint of a graze, proof that she had fallen at least once that night. Her bare arms were slim and toned. She made graceful shapes with them one minute, watching and winding them above her head in clever and complicated motions in time with the drum beat. She flailed them around in a violent windmill the next, the beat forgotten, her head thrown back and her slender shoulders shaking with laughter.
She wore a white vest top cut short to show her tummy and low to show the tops of her breasts. Her tummy was flat and curved down into her low-cut denim shorts in a way that made me want to follow it down with with my fingers, to feel her skin against mine, to see whether the promises that her taut muscled body made could be kept.
The sunset brought out every surface and shape of her. The sun’s alchemical light transmuted her white cotton top into precious reds and golds. Stark shadows accentuated every surface. Her skin was a healthy tanned contrast against the light material. Her long dark hair, tied back in a careless ponytail, shimmered a deep crimson as she danced. I could not look away. I forgot everything around me and stared. My mouth hung slightly open. I was in a state of awe. I studied her like a difficult text. I wanted to understand this girl - this young woman. I wanted to know everything about her.
She wore light trainers and no socks. She was not wearing a bra but the tight material of her top both supported and showed off her athletic curves. She was excited. I was excited by her. She was an explosion of happiness. A joy grenade thrown among us. Her laughter was infectious. I watched her create a path of smiles, laughs and wide eyes wherever her mad dance led her.
I set off in pursuit. Being near her - making a connection, finding out her name - was suddenly the only purpose of my life. I would know this girl. I would love her. She would love me. I knew these things.
I was right.
I danced with her. At first I tried to dance like she danced, but it was beyond me. I could match her energy though. I threw myself into my dancing. I forgot about self-consciousness or embarrassment. I cared only about her. At first she frowned. Was she being mocked? But she quickly understood. She was being complimented; worshipped; pursued. The frown turned into an appraising half smile. Was I worthy? I grinned at her and shrugged. Take me or leave me, the shrug said. But take me, please, my eyes shouted.
She took me. We must have continued our mad dance for an hour. We each learned from the other, finding new moves and new directions to take our capering insanity. Others joined in. Sometimes she span away to dance with another supplicant. But every time she came back to me. We touched occasionally and accidentally at first. It was impossible not to. The touches became more frequent as the night wore on. The music slowed down. We moved closer.
By the time it was fully dark she was in my arms and we were turning slowly. We talked about ourselves and asked questions of the other. I needed to know this young woman. We laughed together - she found me funny. Her humour was wicked and often a little dirty. She swore a lot - relishing each shocking monosyllable. Her hands stroked me: my arms; my back. Once, gentle and tentative, my cheek. I held her lightly and chastely, as if scared I might break her. Or perhaps that I would break the spell we were weaving together.
Her eyes held mine and the time for talking was over. I could not think of a single reason why I would ever choose to look away. I was captivated. I had known her for less than two hours. I was in love.
She turned her face up a little - the barest tilt to bring her lips level with mine. She did not close her eyes. I did not need a second invitation and kissed her softly. I lost myself in her. I breathed her in. I remember everything about her scent that night. A delicious mix of delicate perfume, citrus shampoo and hot, healthy skin.
When the music stopped and the band began to pack up, my friends had to pull me away.
“Alright!” I half shouted, shrugging off an insistent arm. “Alright,” I said again, catching myself and calming down. She was laughing at me.
“You have a lift home?” I said. She pointed at a group of girls who were watching us and sniggering. She nodded, rolling her eyes at their behaviour.
“I can see you again?” I said. I tried very hard to sound calm. I failed.
She magicked a small blue Argos pen from the back pocket of her jeans and wrote a five digit number on the back of my hand. There were no mobile phones back then. It was a small town.
“You’re… interesting,” she said. “That’s my number. Call me.”
And then she was gone, running over to her friends. Some high pitched comments were made but I could not make out the words. She laughed and pushed one of them playfully.. She looked back at me before she left. I felt the click as our eyes met. I smiled at her so widely it hurt my cheeks. She smiled right back. My heart skipped two beats and my legs went weak.
“You’d better fucking call me!” she shouted.
I waved and gave her a thumbs up. I didn’t dare shout back. I did not trust my voice not to crack. I was so happy I was close to tears.
“Jesus,” said my friend. “She’s gorgeous. What the fuck was she doing kissing you, you ugly prick?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Don’t jinx it, for God’s sake,” I said. We went home.
************
She was not my first and I was not hers. But she was my first love. I thought I had loved before but I was wrong. I had not known. I had not understood. I fell for her like a rock from the sky - helpless and terrified of the crash that I knew must eventually come. I would never again feel with the same first-time intensity that stomach dropping free-fall - the knowledge that I had found a person that I wanted with my entire soul and that she wanted me back. It was unbelievable. A miracle. I wanted to believe in any God that would have me and to dedicate my life to thankful worship for the gift I had been given.
We were so young. My parents were strict and hers were stricter. We still lived as children - reliant entirely on our parents for a roof over our heads and food on our table. We had no place of our own to go to.
I loved my parents, they were kind and thoughtful. They used their teaching experience to set boundaries for me to rebel against carefully and cleverly. I never needed to push too hard. They taught me to value my future so that I shied away from risks that could really impact me. I never tried drugs. I never stole. They were at home in the school holidays, just like me.
She had a strong sense of duty and truthfulness. Her father was away a lot, some international thing. He was in Frankfurt. Then he was in New York. I didn’t really pay attention to her vague comments about him - I somehow knew that it was not my business; at least not yet. Something in finance, maybe. Something that paid for her schooling and her big house and his fast car. Her mother was no-nonsense and protective - she did not work and was mostly at home.
All of which made finding space for intimacy difficult. She could not sleep over at mine and I could not sleep over at hers. Our bedrooms felt wrong, somehow - they were places from our past and we both saw our relationship as the start of our future. Even if we had been willing, one of our parents was usually at home.
We kissed and we touched - but we could go no further. We needed a place to go - a safe space. Somewhere we could take our time. I did not want to be distracted, listening for a front door opening. I wanted to be able to focus on her completely. I wanted to caress her. I wanted to learn her body and coax her to a helpless climax. I wanted her to shout my name. I wanted to feel her shudder in my arms. I wanted her hair to fall around my face as I came inside her.
The wheat field was our answer. At dusk on a warm evening in late August, we walked hand in hand into the field of golden wheat - tall and ripe and ready for harvest. We found a spot far away from the road and the tractor lines and carefully flattened the stalks until we had space to place some blankets big enough to let us lie comfortably side by side. It was enough. The blankets were just enough to cover the sharpness of the stalks. We were invisible to everything except the birds. We were far enough away from the rest of the world that we would not be heard if we made some noise. We were alone together. It was our first time.
She lay next to me, looking into my eyes. Her eyes were dark brown - so dark that her pupils were hard to see in the evening light. She was smiling.
“I want you,” she said. She was good at finding the truth of things. She could make big statements with few words. She was direct and honest.
“I love you,” I said. I meant it. It ached through me. Love hurts, they say. My love for her hurt. But it was a good pain. The pain of healing. The ache of a need that I knew would be met. “I want you, too.”
She leaned over to kiss me and then lay back. “I’m so glad I met you,” she said. She pulled one of my hands to the topmost button of her shirt.
“Undress me,” she said. She looked vulnerable. “Please.”
“Yes,” I said.
I carefully unbuttoned her shirt - a scruffy checked lumberjack shirt with frayed hems and rips in the arms. She lay back and let me work my way down. I held her eyes as each button came undone. She bit her lip as I moved below her breasts. Once all the buttons were undone, I pulled her shirt open and savoured the sight of her.
Her breasts were held in a black lace bra. She was perfect. She wriggled out of her shirt and rolled it into a pillow. My hands moved to the button of her shorts and pulled them open. The shorts had a button fly, and I carefully undid them, one by one. I took my time. I pulled and she pushed her shorts down her long legs. She kicked them off, taking her shoes at the same time. Her shoes went to the foot of our makeshift bed. Her shorts went under her shirt.
Her panties matched her bra. I lay next to her, resting on my side and one elbow. I looked at every part of her, taking my time. I reached out to touch her skin. First her calves, feeling the shape and strength of them in my palms. She breathed more heavily as I started to touch her, watching my hands move over her skin. I moved up to her thighs, stroking very gently at first and then more firmly. She moved her legs apart a little, but it was too soon for that. I ran fingers lightly over her tummy, making her gasp. Her skin jumped under my fingertips.
“Tickles,” she said.
“Good,” I replied.
But I relented immediately and moved my hand up further. I brushed the tops of her breasts above the material of her bra. The skin was warm and soft. I cupped a breast in my palm, feeling her hard nipple through the lace. Our eyes met. She licked her lips. I slid my fingers up to her neck. I kept my touch feather light on her throat but pushed more firmly with my fingers against the muscles at the back of her neck, finding a pressure that was somewhere between a caress and a massage. She closed her eyes and leaned back into my touch.