Guilt is a wicked companion...
I've spent most of today with myself and my girls; having sent my son off to school and seen my husband off to work. My girls are almost 5 and 4, but no where near the company I'd have kept when I was younger; having witty wayward conversations that considered the merits of super powers and the attributes of garlic. They're laughter and their babble I would not alter, but a part of me is wilting.
I found myself just today in a rather dreary mood, listening to the rain splatter against the windows and thinking of years long gone. Try as I might, though, my thoughts did not chase back to rainy days where I sat in candle-lit company with friends pretending at 'radio-game-shows' on a mini-tape recorder while emotions and hormones teased at young couples. Instead I found my soul wrenched by the echoing patter of heavy feet stumbling haphazardly across tile and carpet. A falsetto soprano voice coated those words, drowning out the chuckles and conversations of my parents in the room, "I want to hit on the pizza boy...!!!!"
From around the corner comes the sight of a young muscular boy, darker of skin than myself, with a tangled cornsilk blonde wig being hastily adjusted as wide-set shoulders bobble in clumsy haste through the house. Deep rich chocolate eyes dance merrily as his gaze sweeps past me, and through the open door at the person holding the pizza we'd ordered; and the disappointed mirth that followed. The lady at the door chuckles and makes some passing comments about the improbability of being hit on, money is exchanged for the pizza, and the door closes.
But the door doesn't just close, it closes on the memory, and opens again on the other side, to the same memory loop; an insistent replay of younger happier days when I and my 'brother' were closer than close. I'd met him the last year of junior high school, when I was constantly teased by my peers and hurt emotions ran hot and cold. In those early years he taught me how to control my emotions better, to conceal the hurt and rage that came from the taunting; and I helped him in return.
He was aloof then, the 'bad boy' of the courtyard, and the charmer. For years I had a crush on him, but wouldn't tell him because I'd told my other crushes and they all either laughed, or apologized; and walked away. I wanted to keep this friendship, it was one I valued, one that held merit, and I wouldn't risk it by revealing a crush.
The years have moved on, we're still friends - still closer than close, still 'brother' and 'sister', and I am ecstatic that we have managed to remain friends for all these years (and wouldn't change a bit of it). Yet I've not talked to him in several months, being swamped with school, and work, and kids, and life in general - and having only written letters as a way to reach him. I haven't written in months, nor heard from him in months; and today, all I can hear is those clumsy footfalls and his voice echoing through the shadows of my memory... "I want to hit on the pizza boy....!!!!"
A part of me suspects it is him, trying to get in touch with me - or perhaps my subconscious trying to get in touch with him.. But those clumsy high heels and falsetto voice are following me.......
I hope he's okay..
I found myself just today in a rather dreary mood, listening to the rain splatter against the windows and thinking of years long gone. Try as I might, though, my thoughts did not chase back to rainy days where I sat in candle-lit company with friends pretending at 'radio-game-shows' on a mini-tape recorder while emotions and hormones teased at young couples. Instead I found my soul wrenched by the echoing patter of heavy feet stumbling haphazardly across tile and carpet. A falsetto soprano voice coated those words, drowning out the chuckles and conversations of my parents in the room, "I want to hit on the pizza boy...!!!!"
From around the corner comes the sight of a young muscular boy, darker of skin than myself, with a tangled cornsilk blonde wig being hastily adjusted as wide-set shoulders bobble in clumsy haste through the house. Deep rich chocolate eyes dance merrily as his gaze sweeps past me, and through the open door at the person holding the pizza we'd ordered; and the disappointed mirth that followed. The lady at the door chuckles and makes some passing comments about the improbability of being hit on, money is exchanged for the pizza, and the door closes.
But the door doesn't just close, it closes on the memory, and opens again on the other side, to the same memory loop; an insistent replay of younger happier days when I and my 'brother' were closer than close. I'd met him the last year of junior high school, when I was constantly teased by my peers and hurt emotions ran hot and cold. In those early years he taught me how to control my emotions better, to conceal the hurt and rage that came from the taunting; and I helped him in return.
He was aloof then, the 'bad boy' of the courtyard, and the charmer. For years I had a crush on him, but wouldn't tell him because I'd told my other crushes and they all either laughed, or apologized; and walked away. I wanted to keep this friendship, it was one I valued, one that held merit, and I wouldn't risk it by revealing a crush.
The years have moved on, we're still friends - still closer than close, still 'brother' and 'sister', and I am ecstatic that we have managed to remain friends for all these years (and wouldn't change a bit of it). Yet I've not talked to him in several months, being swamped with school, and work, and kids, and life in general - and having only written letters as a way to reach him. I haven't written in months, nor heard from him in months; and today, all I can hear is those clumsy footfalls and his voice echoing through the shadows of my memory... "I want to hit on the pizza boy....!!!!"
A part of me suspects it is him, trying to get in touch with me - or perhaps my subconscious trying to get in touch with him.. But those clumsy high heels and falsetto voice are following me.......
I hope he's okay..