Forbidden Fruit

It wasn’t so long ago in history’s great scheme, but it was another era. It was a time before computers, before mobile phones, or electric cars. MTV reigned supreme, and Ronald Reagan was rebuilding America, and the world, with a Hollywood smile and a “Star Wars” plan.

It has been thirty-five years ago now, but the first time I saw her was one of those unforgettable moments in life when lightning strikes. If you are fortunate, you will attract one of those strikes at least once in your life. A strike caused by a girl, a girl who charges the very air you breathe with strawberry hair, a white bikini, and naive, child-like eyes that pull you into their intricate web of curiousities. Unforgettable are those few moments and people throughout our lives who inspire our pulse to race to new and dangerous speeds. They record themselves, those moments. Our eyes record them, then we set them aside to be pulled from the shelf like a VHS tape. We pull them down on those late nights when the booze has been unkind. We return to them when the loneliness becomes insufferable, and we dust off their jackets before we pop them into the outdated, balky machine that is our memory.

On those nights, like grainy home movie images we see her again. We see her walking towards us through the brassy, beachy sunlight. We see it reflect like halos from her hair, and her eyes. We see an angel on earth, an apparition, a being not meant for our world. We see a smile though that is sent down from heaven for us, and only for us. In that moment she was ours, and we could not but love her. We would love her despite the costs.

We cannot now remember the timber of her voice, but we remember its words. We cannot remember the way she felt in our hands, but we remember that it was good. We cannot recall exactly how it all ended, but we remember why. That we cannot forget.

Our moments alone were few. We were tethered loosely apart by golden rings and promises. Those moments were frantic, passionate times... yes, they were passionate indeed. It is the passion that will not let us forget. Thirty years and it lingers yet. How do we forget a lightening’s strike?

I saw them once, after that summer. Their young daughter was sweet, and she might have had my eyes.