Dec 31 2008

First Blond

Category: The Transcendental CowboyRandall Kelley @ 16:22

I lean in close to the mirror, examining my chin. Then I press my finger against my chin firmly and then I look in my eyes.

Right now I’m on my way to the town we lived in before we moved to Muskogee. This will make me about 3 years old. I don’t remember much about being 3 years old, and I don’t know the name of the Girl I’m still staring at, but here she is.

She is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I am way too young to worry that I might be objectifying her just by the very thought. She IS the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

She is taller than me, as I am quite literally looking up to her. It’s sunny out, and the sun doesn’t just light up her hair, it shines back from her hair into my eyes and makes me feel warm in a way I’ve never felt before.

She is talking and I can’t hear the words, just the tone. I may just be too young, or she may be talking too fast for me to understand, but her voice is having the same effect as the light from her hair. Everything about her is making me feel like I have never felt, but want to keep feeling.

Oh, I am SO in love.

She slowly swings back the golf club, brings it down to the ball, swings it back again, brings it carefully down to the ball again. She points at the ball, then she shows me how she is gripping the club. When I look at her hands I can’t look at the club. Her hands are close and I am determined to touch them.

But she moves back to her position, and begins to swing the club slowly yet again.

Then, without warning, she swings the club back in a violent motion…

Now I’m looking up at her face, in silhouette, close to mine and blocking the sun. I’m feeling no pain, and I don’t know (or care) why I’m on my back in the gravel. I just know that if I reach up right now, I can touch her face.

But, too quickly her voice changes, and she jumps back away from me. Still lying on my back with my hand reaching up to the space where she was just a moment ago, I see her running away down the street.

I don’t ever remember seeing her again.

As I look closely in the mirror for the scar on my chin, I can’t quite see it through my beard. As I’ve gotten older, my beard has finally become thick enough to hide the scar from the stitches. But, when I press my finger against the spot, I can still feel the ridge where a piece of the bone was chipped away all those years ago.

I’m thinking to myself, “You’d think I’d have learned something from that first encounter with a blond, wouldn’t you?”

Arkay Kaye

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