I Remember My First Kiss

by michaelcahill

I Remember Contest Winner

I remember the milk bottle, half-full, crashing against the wall. Bottles were made of thick glass back in the day, and it took a great deal of anger to crush one against a kitchen wall. I remember the breeze on my cheek and the whoosh in my ear as it sailed past my head. I remember the conversation leading up to its launch.

"Eat your flapjacks, kid"

"They're raw."

"They're not raw! I worked my ass off to pay for those. Now eat 'em, if you know what's good for you."

"He doesn't have to eat them. Let me make you some better ones … "

Mom didn't get to finish her sentence. My step-dad finished it with a fist to the mouth, knocking her to the floor.

My eight-year-old self screamed, "Leave her alone! Run, Mom!"

"Shut up, you little brat. Now eat your breakfast, or your next."

I've never responded well to ultimatums. "They're raw!"

Cue milk bottle.

I grabbed my Mom's hand and dragged her out the back door. He didn't follow.

It was thought in those days a boy needed a father. My mom believed so and set about acquiring one for me in earnest. My biological father, so I've heard, was a drunken idiot who abused her. I never met him, but corroborating witnesses make the story likely.

Milk-Bottle Dad was number two in the quest, and no better or worse than the others. Mom suffered from schizophrenia, before the days of medication, and during the days of electro shock therapy. I must admit, she could be an exasperating handful. Her choice in daddies for me, though, lacked certain salient qualities, kindness being at the head of the list.

This is all an aside to the real story. A set up, if your will.

We fled the house and knocked on the neighbor's door. At the sight of a frantic, bloody-lipped woman, and a shaking little boy, the door flew open, and we were whisked inside. Yes, times were indeed different.

The cops were called, and it was suggested to my mom, if she couldn't get along with her husband, perhaps, she should take her son elsewhere. Yep, that's the way it was.

I have many thoughts here going through my head, considering current events and indelible memories, but I'll set those aside as not the focus of this story.

While the adults handled their business, I took refuge in Sally's room. Sally was my neighbor's daughter and an acquaintance. She was a year younger, so not a friend per se, a year being a vast difference at the time.

My persona of being fearless and unaffected by anything, nurtured by a lifetime with a schizophrenic mom, was nowhere to be found as I sat on Sally's bed, sad and unsure of my future. I took care of Mom, circumstances being as they were. She listened to me. However, I didn't know as much as I pretended to know. I knew we could live with Grandma … we always ended up there. But I knew nothing of divorce, finances and the like.

I sat on Sally's bed, for once, overwhelmed and confused. Sally put her arm around me, leaned in and gave me a kiss. She said, "Don't worry, it's gonna be okay."

The purity of her concern and the comfort her act gave me was stunning. In that moment, all sadness and fear left me. I knew it was going to be okay. I learned the power of women in that moment. I'll never forget it.

It would be many years before I'd fully realize her act of kindness shaped much of my behavior towards people in general, but especially women for the rest of my life.

I've tried to emulate the spirit of her kindness as best as I can, especially to women. I attempt to defend and comfort anyone who needs it, when I am able. I do know what despair feels like, and I wish it on no one.

I've found Sally's instincts to be innate to women. It's not that all women are like Sally, of course not. I feel women are predisposed to nurturing and kindness as a difference between men and women. I think men can find and develop this in themselves and do. Many do not. They should.

Yes, I remember the day eight-year-old Sally gave me a kiss that changed my life … my first kiss.

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Writing Prompt
Begin your non-fiction autobiographical story or poem with the words 'I remember...' Complete the sentence conveying a moment, an object, a feeling, etc. This does not have to be a profound memory, but should allow readers insight into your feelings, observations and/or thoughts. Use at least 100, but not more than 1,000 words. The count should be stated in your author notes.