First Kiss

While my earliest memory of elementary school might be nap time during Kindergarten, one of my fondest is of my first kiss. It was maybe second or third grade during outdoor recess when word began to spread that a pack of girls had decided they were going to kiss every boy on the playground, by force if necessary. A few pals and I had barely a chance to ponder this development when here came the girls running full speed in our direction, other boys scattering in front of them. When it quickly became obvious our group was their next target we all turned and yelled, “Run!” None of us made it very far, either falling down on purpose or just not running very fast. I was face up on the ground when the girl that caught me gave a long, wet kiss on the cheek. As soon as it was done she jumped up laughing and rejoined the pack to hunt down more boys. I remember a nice feeling coming over me; I liked that kiss, even though it was supposed to be gross. I can’t remember her name, but she was from Hawaii. For the rest of the year she would smile at me and say hi when we would see each other at school, mispronouncing my last name on purpose with a laugh. She was charming and I was smitten. There was no discussion of that kiss, or of anything else, just friendly greetings and smiles. The next school year I noticed her absence right away, and after asking around I found out she and her family had moved back to Hawaii. I knew that meant I would never see her again. A little lesson on infatuation and loss that I probably will never forget.

“The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.”

Elizabeth Bishop