I was sorry I’d avoided talking about it for so long — not only because it might’ve been helpful, but also because it was among the experiences in my life that seemed forever to perpetuate that great garden path of mystification: standing right at the threshold of the sublime but just as teetering on the brink of sheer ridiculousness.
So be it.
If, by now, this memoir hasn’t firmly declared itself to be literary fluff — a maudlin outlet through which moons and petals and billowy white dresses are handled with all the delicacy and seriousness of wet beach towels — then you’ve been awfully generous with your time.
But this is, in fact, my confession, and so with complete sincerity and impunity, I must unveil that which I have, for close to 30 years now, considered to be the first kiss of my life — the very one that forevermore I’ve half-feared, half-longed to look back upon, like ghosting old wallpaper that I’ve been too scared to rip down and discover the damage done.
I was 12.
It was 4th June.
It was a spring morning so standard that the sounds of kids at play and the sharp whine of an overzealous gym teacher wafted through the hot air to the school playground.
For me, hidden behind that tree, it was serious business.
Ten years old and the game of hide and seek was about more than saving face, it was about survival. I’d chosen my spot in a way that I thought made it perfect.
No one would find me behind the old oak near the far fence where weeds crawled into a near impenetrable blanket.
Or so I thought.
Just as I’d started to shake out my placemat ……………….
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