Margaret was eleven, the
younger sister of my friend. I was fourteen and smitten. No, not smitten,
totally, achingly in love. I didn’t know, of course, what I was feeling. Only
that I wanted to be with her, wanted to be close to her, to watch her laugh, to
watch her smile, hoping beyond hope that her smile was for me.
She knew something was up and tolerated me. Not anywhere near liking, but not
rejection either. We developed a bond of sorts, choosing each other to team up
for cards or other games, sharing private conversations, feeling comfortable
being alone together. She never seemed to mind if our hands touched
accidentally, but I never asked to hold her hand.
At that age, the gap between eleven and fourteen is wide, but try explaining
that to your heart. In a quiet moment, I asked if I could kiss her, and it was
clear, that at eleven, she was not interested in kissing anyone. In the fall, I
moved up to the high school. The next summer, I worked as a golf caddy and was
away most days and weekends and saw Margaret only in passing. By the next fall,
I had a regular part time job and time passed by.
Unexpectedly, in the spring of my senior year, Margaret, now fourteen, invited
me to a dance at her social club. I couldn’t miss work because I was saving for
college, but I rushed home after work, showered and urgently tried to clean
away the dirt and vegetable stains on my hands.
In those days, a boy sent a girl a corsage to wear to the dance. Margaret
hadn’t counted on that and asked her parents to order one too. Her Mom made her
wear both to the dance. At fourteen, Margaret was pretty and smart and melted
my heart all over again. As we danced, she was relaxed in my arms. I sensed
that she felt a stirring as well.
At her door that night, I asked if I could see her again. She said maybe but
meant yes. I was too shy to call her. That fall, I left for college in the
Midwest and then the Air Force and never really returned home. Now that I am
alone, I think of her often. The gap between 63 and 66 is no gap at all.