That Little Voice
That Little Voice
My heart pounded, hoping yet fearful.
Would he?
I waited, my eyes searching his face in the dim light of night.
We stood at the bottom of the small rise, hidden under branches of a scrawny tree, hopefully out of sight of my 90-year-old grandfather gently swinging his legs as he waited for my return.
The porch swing creaked as he rocked beneath the single light bulb illuminating his bowed head. Maybe he had dozed off while waiting, or perhaps he was just lost in his memories.
We whispered to each other: ‘I had fun.’ ‘Me too.’ ‘The movie was good.’ ‘I hope to see you tomorrow at church.’ ‘Yes.’
So, will he kiss me? Or quietly walk me to the bottom of the stairs leading to the house’s interior, and mumble, ‘Good night’?
My 14-year-old desires couldn’t decide which would be more alarming: to be kissed for the first time by this handsome red-head or to be left wondering “Did he even want to kiss me?”
Seconds flashed by, he leaned down, I raised my head, my granddad coughed, and his lips touch my cheek as I whirled thinking we had been caught.
So much for a tender and tentative kiss. He took my hand as we approached the elevated porch, my caring grandfather met me, I waved goodbye, and he drifted off down the rise into the darkness of the night, never to be seen again by me, but still remembered after 66 years.
What happened to that Oklahoma farm kid? Where is he now? Does he even remember that night of mystery and desire? I would love to ask those questions, just to know if my memories are correct, or are tainted by youth and want.
Don’t we wonder what would have happened if we had changed just one part of our pasts? If we had turned left instead of going straight, or if we had said yes instead of no? Or if I had ignored by granddad’s cough?
Our lives would have been different, for the better or worse? We will never know, but I have few regrets. The memory of that hot summer night, walking with a cute guy, anticipating his actions, my loving grandfather waiting up for me, and even the disappointment of a missed kiss, are part of my memory bank allowing me to sit on a park bench, my head bowed, remembering, just as my beloved grandparent did many years ago.