The scent of smokefire; autumn leaves burning; chill winds whispering unspoken words -- these bring back to me that first rush of love's bittersweet memory. First love; first longing; first physical thirst for forbidden fulfillment -- where does memory end and the present begin? This takes me back to the shores of timeless remembrance...
No, he wasn't the most handsome, nor the most popular, but he was very accessible. Corny to think of it, but he was my next-door neighbor. Sandy hair, green eyes, a few indiscreet freckles -- not too tall, not too muscular, but about him there was the look of something I found exceedingly irresistible. His name is not really important, but he was bookish, introverted and his given name fit his personality. Surely no one could fathom him like me -- the girl who would penetrate his shy, reticent demeanor.
We lived on a tree-lined, picturesque street in a small southern town, our modest houses, our simple lives dwarfed by towering ancient magnolias, oaks and maples; shaded and shadowed by past generations who had lived, loved and died in such a peaceful, serene setting. He had been there since childhood, but I only 'saw' him when I turned fourteen -- the fatal age for a teenage girl's heart-throbbing, death-gripping 'crushes'.
And, I began a pursuit as innocent and foolish as any young girl might. He was seventeen, and at first, ignored my ardent attention, though I was difficult to dismiss. I stared moon-eyed across our yard at him, blatant and provocative in my attempts to gain notice. I rode my bike repeatedly down the street while he sat on his front porch, head buried in a book. I suddenly demanded the chore of hanging clothes on our line so as to put myself in direct view of his upstairs bedroom. On those long-ago stifling hot summer nights, I sat before my open window playing Bobby Venton records loudly, my heart aching with unrequited love.
All this to no avail. I remained just another obnoxious fourteen-year-old pest to him; or so it seemed to me. How could he be so aloof, so immune to my presence?
That was the summer of intense yearning. It hurt like a throbbing wound that could not, would not heal. Yet somehow, I loved the poignant pain of longing and suffered with my swooning sickness as if I were the first teenage girl to feel so deeply, so intensely.
And then autumn arrived. School began; I was a freshman, a lowly newborn to high school. He was the upper classman, an exalted senior. Scholarly, remote and highly respected but not popular, no. The same qualities which endeared him to me -- his intellect, his bookish introversion, seemed to brand him an outcast. And as the days passed, I came to understand he may have cultivated the aloof demeanor as a shield against being rebuked by girls.
Learning all this only heightened my burning, secretive love for him. I was faithful; I vowed to wait until he someday 'noticed' me. As it turned out, that happened sooner than I dared hope.
It was a custom in our neighborhood to rake the fallen autumn leaves and then join together and have a huge bonfire. That year was no exception. Late one afternoon our neighborly ritual began. For days everyone had raked leaves, and now large piles were situated at an adjoining midpoint between several yards.
Twilight found me watching anxiously for him, but as darkness crept up slowly, I began to doubt he'd make an appearance. Had he known I'd be here, hoping to steal a chance encounter? Or maybe he had a date? But that would be rare, for I'd discovered during my detective work that he seldom dated, and certainly had no regular girlfriend.
The crowd cheered as the first flare of fire brazenly leapt high; it was dark now, and I leaned against a big oak tree, unable to prevent feeling forlorn, forsaken. A brilliant full moon peered down on the cozy scene, and mocked me. I was near despair; all my efforts had amounted to nothing, after all. So I told myself I'd have to forget about him...
"Hi." The voice came in a soft, husky whisper from behind me.
I looked around, saw him standing there, a tentative smile on his face.
"Uh, hi," I stammered, feeling suddenly shy and inadequate. He looked wonderful, the flickering firelight on his face, those green eyes burning with a fire of their own.
He leaned nonchalantly against the tree, his arm brushing casually against my shoulder.
I thought I'd died and this was surely Heaven -- at least it was in my fourteen-year-old infatuation.
And so it began, a romance that was to span the next five years, a romance fated to burn itself out like a nova scorching a blaze into oblivion. Why? What happened between us?
I guess I still wonder about that today, but perhaps it was too many years of being apart while we each pursued different career goals; too many love letters that never delivered in reality what they promised in writing. I was awestruck with him for a very long time; but as I developed during my teen years, I began to slowly learn the power of my own charm and beauty. I was never popular, but I was well-liked and had lots of boys asking for dates.
But perhaps finally it was the disillusionment of what we expected one another to remain -- forever naive teenagers enthralled with our first love. I often wonder, did he and I love each other or did we only love being in love for the first time?
Oh...he's still out there somewhere; we lost touch, and we both married others. It seems the years have dwarfed us just as those ancient oaks and magnolias once did. He is with his wife; I am with my husband -- we have happy lives too.
Yet sometimes, every now and then, when I smell autumn smokefire, I often find myself humming the old familiar refrain from a special song of that bygone era....
