I believe in the wonder of the first kiss. My first kiss was with Frank…ah Frank with the beautiful blue eyes. I fell in love with Frank at the tender age of 13. I was an inch taller than him but he stood as if he were 6 feet tall. He was spunky for a slightly built 7th grader. I remember the moment we first looked at each other. He had just been harassed by his buddies the way middle schoolers do to their closest friends. He saw that I was watching and just to impress me, he cursed them. With that look and the following fowl language, I fell head over heels.
The kiss took place after a band concert. Frank played the oboe, sort of. He was terrible but I didn’t care. He didn’t care that I played the trombone, usually a boy’s instrument. We slipped into the library, dimly lit after the evening concert. It took a few minutes for either of us to work up the courage to move our faces close together. It seemed like hours and I was very nervous. His hand held mine firmly and confidently.
Then it happened. My brain hummed and time stood still. The opening of the corny show “Love American Style” finally made sense. It really was like fireworks.
I could feel the importance of that kiss. The moment was being seared into my mind like a brand. No other kiss would mean as much. No other boy would take Frank’s place. No one else would be my first kiss, my first love.
That kiss did stay with me.
It was there when Frank I and reconnected when were in our forties. We met again after a 20 year separation. He was wearing his white navy uniform and looked very dashing. He showed me his ship. He took me all the way to the top and then he kissed me.
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