“You’ll remember the first time forever.”
The words cascade off your mother’s lips gracefully and fall into your ears.
Forever.
You remember his skin burning yours;
His lips leaving stains on the nape of your neck;
His scent lingering at your nose.
You remember the feel of his tongue on your body--
In your body;
His fingertips stroking your cheek,
Grabbing your hair.
Forever.
The word seems foreign on your lips,
As if too large a word to fit in your mouth.
Clumsily moving it around with your tongue,
You repeat the word aloud.
Your mother looks at you,
Questioning.
Knowing.
“Of course. You remember all of your firsts—at least most of them.”
You remember the moans.
The blood.
Your bare body being eaten by hungry eyes and a
Hungry mouth.
You remember the feel of his breath on your neck,
The warmth of his body as it slept soundly near yours.
“What was yours like,” you ask.
Your mother begins to explain her forever,
Pausing thoughtfully as if deciding where to begin.
You begin to think of the next morning.
The smiles.
The kiss.
“And then what happened,” you ask yourself aloud.
Your mother, laughing, looks over at you.
“Well, we eventually got married, but you know how that ended.”
You laugh at your mother then again at yourself,
Remembering the conversations afterward.
You remind yourself of the distance.
The vacant responses.
The feel of sweet wine down your throat,
Of cognac on your tongue.
“Promise me you’ll tell me when it happens,” your mother says cautiously.
You plaster a smile on your face before responding.
“Of course,”
You whisper so she can’t hear your voice crack.
Artwork: Chico y Rita, 2010
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