“In the beginning I was so young and such a stranger to myself I hardly existed. I had to go out into the world and see it and hear it and react to it, before I knew at all who I was, what I was, what I wanted to be.”—Mary Oliver, Upstream
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Anna didn’t know why, but she thought of it then: carnival rides on smalltown square, a ferris wheel and another than spun; a high, tall slide with waves in fall that children rode down on burlap bags—simplicity and fun that seemed of a time lost to her in world; rows of games staged in stand that seemed plain in day but grew in allure at night when lights of the stands shone brighter than those of the smalltown streets.
Would it live the same if she ever returned? Or, returning, viewing now, would she see and find a smallness it, in truth, had always been? Returning, would she kill affinity for the memory?
*****
She remembered the summer nights, always near to Fourth of July, late middle-school and early high school years when, blossom from youth, one awakes to sense of attraction and grown love’s ideal.
Waiting in line, nerves in a quiet, not knowing what to say—and speaking that, the nervous quiet—drop of the chain, move of the line, sit and metal clink as lock of rail-guard latched; spin of the wheel, rise and the fall over square and town for the few, brief times around; then the slow unload, seat by seat; pause in height and above it all, believing ones’ selves invisible and lost in the heights and dark of night, above the crowd and lights below—first gifted kiss.
Intimate’s share, neither knowing what or now—but learning—in new openness and curiosity of a seeking, awakened in sense and draw—all of a new—to way of a love-ideal.
They both learning they were not invisible, hidden as they seemed, and the sounds and shrieks of friends in seeing down below—not of mockery, not of meanness, but of a way of giddiness’ excitement mirth when all are young and love is new and all are in season of stumbling from crawl into walk and the learnings of romance in all its beauty, confusions, and confounding.
She remembered the kiss, heat-flame of the heart, first-cool of lips’ press, warmth’s rise in their stay; the sounds of her friends, their scatter beneath in glee and tease—happiness and tiny jealousies—into disperse among the crowd; heart-flame’s keep, warmth in chest and the cool of her arms and legs; stars above and the half-moon light; glow of the square below; holding hands, slow walking, in allure of night-lit games that were plain in day.
A follow-night, fireworks over field, a second stolen kiss; this time more aware, this time more removed; away in the shadows as all gazed on the dazzle; firework bursts as beats of their hearts—concussive, strong, confusing, confounding, and wondrous too; blush of their faces through night-dark and summer tans, holding hands, keeping close, eyes’ return to sky in dazzle.
*****
Anna wondered if parts would be the same knowing whole could never be. She thought of the square: carnival rides and innocent games, more alluring in night, in the smalltown enchantment and charm of it all in lights.
She didn’t know why, but she wished to return, see it all again; to learn if a romance still remained.