We blog, that's what we do.

I have three blogs that I've kept over the years. I don't often read back over them, mainly because I don't have time. But today I had a minute or two, and something reminded of it and so, I signed in. To the first one I kept, I mean, I looked in at the first one. Which I have to sign in now since I have it listed as private.

I sort of wanted to flip a coin to see where it would land on the very first November 24th blog that I ever wrote.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Changed

I was at a race this morning watching Royce and his brother do a 5 miler. It was bitter, brutal cold, but we stayed beside a wall that kept the wind at bay. After that we were driving home and went past an old neighborhood where I used to hang out with an old boyfriend. He was my first one, my first serious one. It all looks the same there, houses are just the same, the streets, everything. Could I close my eyes and see me the same there? I think I could.

Here is what I saw: A boy on a moped and a girl on the back, going way too fast, going off to... somewhere. We never knew until we found it. And we found this place behind the hospital and in the woods there we found foot trails. We left the moped and walked back in. Underneath a bush was a deerbed where we laid down and looked through branches at a deep blue sky... it was hot, muggy... and we were kissing, and kissing was never like that before, and not that I can recall, like that since....

Another thing I remember is we never worried about how deep to go or how far, and we spoke of everything, we said it all, we were limitless, and unafraid, nothing to risk.. we talked about what we felt without holding back, and we felt each thing and each thing was personal and we weren't embarrassed about it. It wasn't ideal, no, but it was ... free, for awhile.

I ran into him not long ago. A few days before Christmas. Actually he came to find me, but ... he was not the same. His face was not.. for kissing anymore. It was devoid of the wildness that seems never to leave me, but seems often to leave others. We spent time with talk about his work, houses and cars, the flow of money in his life, talk of products he buys...

I waited because I wanted to ask him about... I didn't, but I wanted to ...to ask him if he remembered being under the bridge on that cold day by the reservoir and how I was staring off like people do sometimes when they zone out and how when I came back to he was looking at my face like he had just watched something being born. I wanted to tell him that I didn't know what being beautiful was 'til then.

I didn't though. And I couldn't stay with him long at the restaurant where we met all those years later, it was too awkward for me. Small talk ain't my thing. But I did go home and I wrote him a poem.