Odd Ball

She Came Like a Summer Breeze

We don't truly know ourselves. Not until we're old enough too, anyway. But at what age is this? Neither you, nor I, am the same person who existed five years ago – no matter which way you felt about "Them." Them entails a lot; friends, family, the place you live, the people you love. All of these are attached to that "Them;" who used to sit where you do; sleep in your bed. Everything changes, and it isn't until you look back down the worn trail you've been treading that you realize: it's all behind you. Perhaps, it is to your misfortune that your favorite flower still sits there, bright and beautiful, waving gently in the breeze, back where you were forced to leave it. What is truly cruel, is if you were to pluck it from its roots – take it with you – It would never be the same. It would wilt and die, leaving you wishing you had never taken it from its spot in the first place. At least the memory of this warmth would still be, untarnished, by the blinding greed brought about by love. We are all bound to do it, even the wisest at least once. I, too, tried to fill my pockets with each and every flower I found along my path. All I ever ended up with was dust. There were extraordinary flowers. Each delicate in their own way, each bringing with it a unique joy unlike any before. But, we change, continue down our paths, and flowers either die or are left behind. Though, it is a humbling lesson, these creatures will never be forgotten. For some, the erosion of time will blur the memory, as if it were a dream and had never happened at all. However, for others, the truly magnificent ones, their profound effects will never be lost. I remember one such flower. One that was more vibrant and gorgeous than the rest. One whose warm glow was so briefly enjoyed it would be impossible to forget. Her name was Kinsley.

We'd met by chance, at a basketball game. She was the new girl in school – the hot new girl in school – and I, to be optimistic, was no one. By this point in my long line of "Thems," I was almost the average teenage boy; in short, a menace to society; put another way, a punk-ass kid. My group of friends and I were more interested in gathering around a sticky, pungent plant than most other forms of socialization. Not every day, but most days, we'd take a short, uplifting lesson in horticulture. It was for this reason, I, and the collective forming "We" that fateful night, were late to the game in the first place. "We" stumbled through the double doors of the gym, late, and it seemed attracting every single eye in the room. The stands were filled with school spirit-enhanced students, moving in a swarming mass of hormones and school colors – black and blue. In an instant I cannot recall, the collective that had once formed "We" disbanded, leaving only the singular, socially inept, I. Trapped, frozen, stoned, I looked for a seat, finding only one, behind – her. Her face was sculpted gently, ending in a particularly unique point, and framed ever so softly by her golden hair. Her eyes looked to be made of emeralds, or a shimmering jade. It was as though she emitted a warm light from her plush skin – something you might see depicted around an angel. I felt the need to ask her permission to even exist in her sphere, let alone sit in it. What drove me to do anything was the firm handed grip I suddenly felt on my shoulder.

"Sitting down?" The voice was unmistakably that of our principal, Mr. Brigade. "You're not allowed to stand here, you know."

A few garbled words leaked from my mouth before I plainly answered, "Yes," and took my blessed seat. A rather tense few minutes followed. As I began to acquaint myself to my new resting place, I came to find I was not alone in my admiration of the new girl's beauty. Unbeknownst to her, it seemed that she was now the main attraction of the stand's left side. Boys, young and old, ugly and handsome, influenced by drugs and not influenced by drugs, had taken notice. Yet, I had something they did not: a seat behind her. Had they all shared the same proximity to her that I did, their initial reactions would have doubled in enthusiasm. The act of actively enjoying another's fragrance is an embarrassing thing to admit, but, in this instance, I was not ashamed. She smelled as though she bathed in a sea of other-worldly perfumes. The mixture was so potent, and I so intoxicated by it, I hardly noticed when we touched for the first time. Not so much in a romantic fashion, as so much as my knee bumped her back. For some, this might not be deemed a victory, but then and there, I counted it. Over the next fifteen minutes we played game of what I like to call "Knee-Back." The point of the game is such: touch her, with your knee, on the back. I, myself, was a borderline professional at the sport, considering it a true "man's-man" pastime. In my hormone filled mind, I thought I could feel the connection growing. Never had I been so nervous, but never had the reward been so gracious. As I would come to find, everything with this girl would happen in flashes of brilliance completely out of my, and possibly even her, control. It began with a three point shot from our basketball team, not that I was paying attention. What I recall is the crowd standing in celebration, when suddenly, in a rush of gold hair, she fell back. Instinctually, I caught her to prevent her fall, cradling her for just a moment.