Smooth serpentine rock

and thank you for the music!

Firstly, I want to thank so many of you for sharing all the songs that help you in troubled times. I have had a brilliant week listening to all of them, sometimes over and over. If you missed the suggestions, check out the comments from last weeks post linked HERE. I hope you too find some gems there. ❤️

Secondly, I am hoping you can indulge me here in a slight variation from my usual rambling posts. This story came to me earlier this week, insisting that I write it down. It’s quite unusual for me to be ‘told’ what to write, and I couldn’t let it go; or rather, it wouldn’t let me go on without writing it. So I did and here’s a little piece of fiction that demanded to be heard.

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Joe was a quiet but strong boy in my grade. Both the boys and the girls liked him; he was quiet, and kind, but you didn’t mess with him either.

There was something about Joe: I was alternately in awe of his physicality, and also charmed by his quiet shy smile. He had a slow loping walk that never looked like he was in a hurry, but because he was tall, he could cover a lot of ground quickly. His broad chest held high created a strong and unyielding presence. He was a talented and popular athlete although you would never call him a jock, and he was outdoorsy like many of us, living in an area surrounded by forests and mountains. He wasn’t an especially verbal guy, never the one taunting others or blathering on loudly to show off in front of his peers or the girls. Yet for this girl, his quietness was a magnet, and he was also as gentle and tender as she could ever imagine. 

We were friends, or rather, we had the same group of friends, but I was never really sure what he thought of me. I figured I was just another girl in a pack of prettier, more popular and possibly more notorious and therefore more interesting girls in our gang. In the group, there always seemed to be pressure to talk, to entertain, to flirt like the popular girls, or to give up parts of my body to wandering hands.

After school was finished for the summer, I would see Joe at the grassy park where kids in the town would meet up randomly, between camps and jobs and family vacations. First circling around from afar to figure out who was there, and maybe taking a side trip to the local store first to indicate further indifference, we’d then sidle up to the group lounging on the grass and say, oh hi, how’s it going? Like we were surprised to bump into them there.

That summer we were moving on from the close-knit and sometimes suffocating childhood school and small community where we had grown up, to new high schools in the bigger county catchment, with students added in from the surrounding towns. It was the time when our grownups said the decisions we made from now on would Have Consequences.

Coming from a small class of long-time friends, we were excited about what was to come and trying to be brave. We were ready. But in the meantime, we had one last summer of what could still be considered childhood to enjoy—although none of us would EVER call ourselves children. Time was suspended with anticipation; like that pause after the long climb up a roller-coaster before the big descent into the whirlwind and startling curves we knew were coming.

For my 13th birthday that summer Joe gave me a small serpentine rock from our nearby mountain that he had carved, polished and hung on a suede lariat necklace. No boy had ever given me a birthday present before. No boy had given me anything, really, except confusion and regrets.

Towards the end of summer, we met up at the local fair in the late afternoon, riding the ferris wheel and eating cotton candy, playing carnival games in the bright warm sunshine. The fair was really local: walking distance from home, small and very intimate as fairs go. It seemed possible to know everyone there.

As the dusky twilight brightened the carnival ride lights and tinkly music, Joe and I walked closer together, slowing down the passing moments. Passing our friends and neighbours, the stalls of plastic inflatable toys and stuffed animals with neon stripes, the hot dogs and ice cream stands, yet really only feeling the presence of each other. 

In summer, the damp evening fog blows in suddenly and insistently, quickly cooling down the warm dry days. I remember tucking in next to Joe with his down jacketed arm close around me. The feeling of down was new to me, it’s warmth and comfort delicious, nestling me and Joe together in its light feather cloud. 

Eventually we left the carnival and walked slowly back towards my house, up the long hill towards where we would part. Summer sparkled with a sweet boy who wanted to hold my hand and keep me warm. I felt safe with this boy who didn’t talk too much, and who seemed happy just in my company. It was a new feeling, and a bit wondrous. 

When we got to the place where I would go on home alone, there was no rush to say goodbye, or an awkward embrace. Instead he slowly enfolded me in his arms, holding me close, no sense of urgency or need, just comfort and quiet presence, as if we had all the time in the world to be there together, the two of us. We watched the emerging stars for awhile, and listened to the sounds of nearby suburban houses in the evening, sprinklers pulsing across grass, the sounds of splashing water in kitchen sinks with dishes clanking gently, voices murmuring. 

Time suspended, just for us, this twilight summer evening. The two of us, cozily surrounded but unseen by our childhood community. Two young souls seeking haven against the coming uncertainties, companionship in our next steps towards consequences.

I could feel his soft breath, feel his chest slowly rising and falling next to mine. And his kisses, well, they were sweet and gentle and thoughtful. We melted softly into each other, just like in the movies and books. I floated home after that.  

How I ever let that boy go, I don’t know. 

Well, of course I do. It was the end of summer and we were going off to different schools, and there was no point in trying to carry on with this unexpected person. At least that is what I thought was the grown-up thing to do at the time. I was expected to excel at the new school so I could get a scholarship to a good university. This was the fresh start I was supposed to be looking forward to, and going to a private school meant working hard and doing well had to be my first priority. 

But secretly, it was because I wasn’t sure what to do next. I didn’t know boys could be that kind and willing to just be with me, with no pressure, no agenda and nothing ventured.

So that was the last time I ever saw Joe.

But I was just 13 and still had so much to learn.

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Thanks as always for reading this week! It means the world to me.

I hope to be back to regular content next week; hopefully no other random stories will hijack my attention!

Have a wonderful song-filled and autumnal week ahead!

xx Sabrina

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