I fell in love with him on the peach-colored tile floors of my family's ranch house in the summer of 1959. The very same day Hawaii was admitted as the 50th US State, his sister and my brother had gotten married, yet their whole family had moved in with us two weeks before that. On the night of the wedding, I had to share my room with his younger sister so that the newlyweds could have some privacy. I couldn’t sleep because her snore made my butt cheeks shake underneath my silk nightgown, so I went to the kitchen in the middle of the night to find him on all fours, licking chocolate frosting off the floor. He lifted his head at the sight of my bare feet and pulled me down on top his striped pajamas, my chest resting on his. Like I've said, it was the day I fell in love with him; right there and then.

''I couldn't let such a good cake go to waste,” he said, his finger leaving chocolate dots on my nose and cheeks, ”didn’t mean to drop it.” As he licked them off with over dramatic sounds, I started giggling louder and louder. Just as he reached out to kiss me, we heard footsteps on the stairs. He quickly got up from underneath me and pulled up my 16-year-old body after him, motioning me to get into the huge wine cabinet before he turned the light off. From the thin cuts in the wood, we hid and watched his mother come in, a big yet elegant woman, breathing heavily and talking to herself. She opened a drawer and farted, opened another one and farted again. Again and again, not really knowing she was looking for. When he realized I was about to burst out in laughter, he covered my mouth with the palm of his hand. My chest pounding with his touch, I turned around to see he was holding his nose with his free hand. That’s when he lifted his hand up from my mouth, holding just my nose, and pressed his lips against mine. That was our very first kiss, the kiss that was surrounded by his mother’s intestines-gone-wrong smell, yet my nose only picked up the cheap cologne on his skin, and his breath on mine.

It was our last kiss. The very first and last. If I did know the last time I got to kiss him was indeed the last time, I would’ve hold on a little longer, or maybe even give myself to him instead of dreaming about our wedding every night as we slept under different sheets. I would’ve begged him not to drive into town the following day, or at least told him to watch out for the bee truck that fell…

So, my dear child. Those wild bees got the last bite of him, not me. So, when you do get a chance, use it as if it has no expiration date because it might be your last one. Now, go wash your face, push those tears back and go outside with your head high. And keep walking, dear child, just keep walking.