that summer

you remember that summer
second week of July on the Jersey shore
when you wore your sweet youth
like newly-molted skin

and one evening your mother and father let you stay out
alone in your ragged levis and fringed leather vest
and you disappeared barefoot
into the strangers on the boardwalk
into the summer night
where everything was possible

you went into a shop and tried on a hat you remember it
gold suede floppy brim beaded band
and when you looked at yourself in the mirror
there he was in his tattered army jacket
faded cutoffs and Woodstock t-shirt
eyes the color of amber

remember how he laughed when you turned
and pressed the hat down into his sun-streaked curls
and after you had tried on every hat in the shop
you linked arms and went out into the salt-kissed night
and you wove your way all but dancing down the boardwalk

past the shops selling salty french fries
in grease-soaked paper cones
frozen custard cotton candy pizza
foot-longs and caramel corn
the rolling stones blasting from a record store
but the rides on the pier were too noisy
and the benches were too brightly lit
and neither of you had any money so you just walked on
past families with whimpering sunburned children
slumped over their fathers’ shoulders
and everyone else seemed to be lovers

remember how you shivered
when he put his arm around you
and you turned off down the next street
because you had promised to be back by eleven
and you meant to keep your word

and then you were alone suddenly and shy
walking past darkened stores that sold
coppertone and kotex and maybelline
and then down wide streets lined with crepe myrtles
past guesthouses with brightly painted shingles
and deep porches a little nicer than
the one where your family was staying

and remember how all too soon you came to your street
with your guesthouse at the end of it
and it was time to say goodnight
and you stopped beneath the winging stars
in a halo of lamplight
knowing that this was all there would ever be
and you let his jacket slide off your shoulders to give it back

remember how slowly he bent until his lips met yours
and you shared one soft, sweet kiss
before he stepped back to look at you
and you knew that you were the one
who would have to turn and go

and remember how you could not bear to look back until you reached
the bottom of the stairs that led to the porch outside your family’s rooms
and when you turned to look he was still there
and when you reached the top step and turned to look again he was gone

but do you remember this

how when you opened the door ever so quietly
still lost in the amber of his eyes
still stunned by the tenderness of his kiss
your mother stepped out of the shadows
where she had been waiting and watching

and she struck you so hard across your face
so that your head snapped to one side
calling you a dirty hussy
pulling her summer robe tight around her brittle heart
retreating to the room where your father started
and rolled away to the far side of the bed

and when you again remembered to breathe
you stumbled to the daybed where you slept
beneath the picture window overlooking the street
pulled your knees to your chest and wept
until your pillow was soaked
with the last of your innocence
and you no longer knew for whom you cried

but later when you couldn’t sleep
and you sat up and leaned your head against the window frame
careful not to crush the starched organdy curtains
where your mother had sat and watched earlier
remember how you stared out into the haloes of lamplight
still tasting the salt and honey of his mouth
and thinking: remember

remember

 

Susan McKendree volunteers with Mountain Area Hospice. Three kitties share their house with her in Weaverville, NC. Susan is a poet, and is working toward publishing a memoir entitled Beads on the Mala.