Look At Me Now
Jerry handed me the shotgun. I had never killed anything before.
Jerry, with his brothers, Ken and Steve, stood off to the side. These country boys, sons of a soybean farmer, were going to learn this city kid, who was about to become their brother-in-law, a few things.
I pointed the gun at the mulberry tree filled with a hundred or so starlings. I pulled the trigger and as I fell over backwards, eight starlings tumbled dead to the ground. The laughter of my in-laws could not drown out my remorse and embarrassment. Those eight starlings remain a weight on my conscience while the embarrassment was but a sad transitory moment. Eight dead at the hands of a foolish young man. A foolish young man in love, or so he believed. No, I was in love.
I was 19 years old. The landscapes of killing and love are most vividly painted when young. We old have seen our share of killing, and love has lost its’ shimmer and has become a dusty, quiet gem.
I loved their sister, Cheryl. She was 18. We met in college, she a freshman and I a sophomore. She was the first woman I ever slept with. I say “slept with” because to say we “had sex” is crude and debases the moment. To say “made love” overstates the youthful passion which had captured us.
I was mesmerized from the beginning. We walked everywhere together, my feet inches off the ground and our hands entwined. Quiet kisses stolen as we walked. I held her tighter than I ever held anyone. We could not bear to be apart. I waited for her outside classes as she did for me. I was never more alive. Every painful memory evaporated in her presence. She was a princess, a goddess, my sun and moon, my life and soon to be wife.
How to describe those moments when a young boy and young girl first fall in love? It’s a writer’s job to put into words the beauty of such an experience. I am a poor writer and must rely on others to say how I feel. Compare her to a summer’s day? Count the ways I love her? Out my senses, leaving me deaf and blind?
We were to live our whole young lives away in the joys of a living love.
Fifty years have passed since we touched. Fifty years since I held her hand, kissed her lips, seen her face, heard her voice.
In a dream last night, she came to me. Curled up in our bed, she looked up at me with that smile that first captured me. I leaned forward and said “I love you”. She lowered her head, closed her eyes and began to cry.
Eight starlings rose from the ground and the tree burst into flame.