Do You Remember Your First Kiss??

It was a very hot summer nite in August of '86.  I had just turned 16.  I could smell his Drakkar cologne mixed in with the exhaust fumes from his father's maroon Chevette.  As we quickly rounded the corner I heard the squeak of the breaks.  I didn't want to look up.  I didn't want the ride to end.  

Janet Jackson's When I Think Of You  was blaring from the radio speakers.   The windows were rolled down.  I felt the warm humid breeze blowing through my hair as I turned to glance over at him.  He gently touched my hand with his.  His hand was big and strong overpowering mine.  I wanted his big arms wrapped around me.  I could feel goosebumps riding up my spine.  As  his  hand lightly squeeze mine I felt very warm and tingly.  It was the first time a boy ever held my  hand.  I was too shy to look in his eyes but I could almost feel his smile.  The moonlight coming through the car window showered light on our hands.  The moment seemed never ending.  I wanted time to stop.

I felt his hand gently pull mine closer to him as if to lead me into his arms.  The other hand touched my face.  I was afraid he could hear the sound of my knees shaking.  And just like that I felt his lips quickly touch mine.  It was a soft, wet kiss that brought the goosebumps back again.  

So unsure of what to say or do I said goodbye and practically jumped out of the car.  I could feel my smile getting bigger as I approached my house.   I turned to look back at him and heard the whirring of the engine getting louder.  I was just about to wave when I heard "Cath...is that you?"  in my mom's concerned voice billowing out of the kitchen window.  Rolling my eyes with a sigh escaping my breath I clicked the latch on the door.  I walked inside, headed straight for the stairs and up to my room.  As I felt myself bounce on my bed belly flop style I licked my lips.  I touched them as if something big had just happened.  I tried to remember the feeling, the softness of his mouth.  All of the other sounds in the house were quickly drowned out by the song playing in my head.   I began to replay that moment.  A thousand times would never be enough.  I could only hope it would happen again.

Little did I know at the time but I had just shared my first kiss with the man I would someday marry...

Do you remember your first kiss?  How old were you?  Is it a fond memory or something you would rather forget?  

The Deepest Cut

In a past post I talk about photos and the kinds of feelings they evoke in us. I thought about this as I was rummaging through photos for a recent interview about Breastless in the City. One of the photos requested was of Paul and I. I cringed as I read the request. Then I wondered where I could have hid them. Then I thought about how I didn't want to look. It would be too hard to see his face again, to see us together, too hard to remember. In the past 15 years that he has been gone there has not been a day that he doesn't cross my mind. But looking at pictures of him is like dumping some alcohol in a fresh cut. I knew it was going to burn. It would burn my heart.

As I opened the closet and dug out the box I felt dizzy and my heart began to race. I grabbed handfuls of disorganized photos from my entire life hoping the sting wouldn't last too long. I wanted it to be quick like ripping off a bandaid. I watched photos drop to the floor around me and there it was...the picture of my dad and I circa 1971. I was about 2 years old at the time. It was Easter Sunday in the Bronx. I had hair in my eyes and was crying. My dress was mint green. He had his arms around me trying to stop my tears.

So as I was searching for a photo of Paul out fell my dad. I wasn't expecting that. Next week it will be a year since he died. I quickly realized that my box o' photos is crammed with dead people. All of the family I lost and miss so much. That is why the box is hidden away, why it is always closed. Just as I wish sometimes I could close away that part of my life. Because maybe the pain would go away...

Picture Perfect

Yesterday my husband and I did some spring cleaning.  Him more than me.  As I have confessed to before I am the clutter bug in our house.  As I was wafting through a stack of papers he pointed out the dust which had accumulated on our bookshelf.  I keep framed photos on that shelf.  Each shelf tells a story.  Some make me happy, others make me sad, and yet some are bittersweet.  

Besides cleaning the dust he wanted me to change some of the pictures.  He suggested I change them to more recent ones.  Too much of the past he said.  Too many people we have lost.  Although I could see his point I was startled by his idea.  As my eyes scanned each shelf I realized that there were more from the past then the present.  A couple of people I no longer speak with.  My favorites are the ones of he and I, on vacation and others from our wedding.   It was when we were our most happy.  It was before everyone started to die.  

I have always found comfort in photos.  Comfort in the past.  It makes me feel closer to those I have lost at the same time it makes me feel sad.  After my first husband died I spent countless hours over many years sitting on the floor with boxes of photos wet with my tears.  It was how I spent time with him, the memory of him.  It was a comfort until it stopped me from moving forward.  

These days I am feeling stuck in the past.  Too much missing the ones who I have lost.  I can't help but wonder if I should put those pictures away.  Would it make me miss them less?  Would it help me pull my feet out of the mud?

Do you find comfort in pictures?  Does it bring you joy?  Does looking at pictures ever make you feel like you are stuck in the past?  Are yours on display or tucked away for a rainy day?