Her family moved in
across the street
from mine,
and my 19 year old
head was turned.
I was curious.
I moved slowly,
the only speed
my timid, virgin
heart knew.
She was dark haired,
dark-eyed,
peach-cheeked,
with a wide,
friendly smile.
Fittingly,
her name was Gracia.
Where I was a nervous
dervish of insecurity,
she was calm,
comforting
and laughed when needed,
and took me seriously
when needed.
She was beautiful
and she was my friend
and I loved her.
Moments together
were warm and they glowed.
We were chaste,
perhaps even naive,
and we both happily explored
the previously uncharted regions
of each others' heart.
We taught each other
how to kiss,
and nothing more.
There was no need for more:
it was an exquisite time,
and that was enough.
But, like a haunting melody
on a worn-out 45,
somewhere deep down
we both knew
our summer of 1983
would come to an end.
The next year
she started dating
Alex,
and I tried not to watch
from my bedroom window
as he gently guided her
into his car,
in a most gentlemanly
and enviable fashion.
He was older (which I wasn’t),
he was Christian (which I wasn’t),
he had a plan for his life
(which I didn’t).
Within two years
she married Alex,
and I attended their wedding,
which her family
inexplicably and regrettably
decided to boycott.
I used to wonder
about my place
in her memories,
until I found out
years later
that her
first son’s name
is
the same as mine.
(Posted for #OpenLinkNight at
dversepoets.com, the best poetry website on the whole damned Internet.)
