Don't Try that Again

WC 751

Don't Try that Again

Forty five years later, I sat there in front of the campfire. Freddy was playing an old John Denver tune on his guitar…As he sang the lyrics, he was plucking the frets on my heart. It seemed like each line flickered, the way a cog hitches, one off the track on an old cellulose movie.

Lie there by the fire and watch the evening tire…

That was Linda and I the night we met at the American Legion Hall. She was a petite black haired girl, wearing an outfit that cost her a lot more than she could afford. Pink slacks and a cabled sweater to match. I could tell she didn’t want to mess it up and I told her to sit on my jacket, as we watched the bonfire. It was a pale yellow London fog windbreaker with my initials set in variegated thread…that was the fashion back in 1965. I still have it hanging in the closet...never had it dry cleaned.

We started making out and I could tell it was the first time she french kissed. She wanted to mush our lips around and seemed genuinely surprised when I pushed my tongue between and started exploring her palette. Still it didn’t upset her much and she caught on fast.

While me and my old lady sit and pass the pipe around…

I didn’t do drugs and neither did she and the smell of pot was a bit overwhelming. We got up and walked over to the edge of the grass, standing under a huge gum tree. She had a burn on her arm, where as a kid, her mother spilled coffee; seemed self conscious about it. I never would have noticed if she hadn’t kept tugging at her sleeve. I kissed her again and this time she surprised me by pressing her middle into mine. She always swore she didn’t, but she did. We embraced for quite a while. I could see in those dark eyes an intensity that looked right through me. My hand slid up her waist, my thumb hooked under her cup and my fingers wrapped around. She started! Then reached up and pulled it away. Giving me a serious look, she said, “Don’t try that again.“ It was too late. The touch was already etched into my heart…her breast was small but it was soft. “Sorry,” I replied lying like a dog, “I won’t let that happen again…” but by then I had the feel and it became a lifetime memory. It was one of those scoldings I never regretted. “Want to make out some more?” I asked, and her lips reached up to mine.

Talk of poems and prayers and promises, things that we believe in.

After coming up for breath we found out we had two things in common. She was a Baptist and I was a Presbyterian and I liked Rudyard Kipling and she liked Sylvia Plath. I know! I know! But at the time it seemed like two things in common. God was God back then and poets were poets after all. It turned out there were some other minor differences but on that promising night in September, they didn’t really seem to matter.

How good it is to love someone, how right it is to care.

She had my heart, even before we started back to campus. We walked together, over a mile back to the dorm. Then we kissed some more. “I think I’m starting to like you.” I told her. “I think I’m starting to care what you think,” she answered. The lights were bright standing under the archway and her persona glowed.

How long its been since yesterday; what about tomorrow?

Yesterday we were young. She was vibrant and alive and could make the most amusing faces. She was a natural mime and could mimic voices and character mannerisms. Once she started that I’d get to laughing until the tears ran down my cheeks. And there were some good times and bad times but the bad got forgotten when her smile lit up the room. She’s been gone a year now and sometimes I hurt so fucking bad I can’t stand it. Last night I took the forty-five out of the night stand. I was amazed at how easy it would have been... then I felt something stir inside and it was like she was next to me again…giving me that serious look….I put it back.

“Don’t try that again,” she whispered.