A man will carry to his grave with wonder the memory of his first and his last kiss from a female. The ancient ritual mixed with young hormones starts him on his way into this mystery. The final rite filled with love sends him to his destiny. Great overtures have been written, masterpieces sung, paintings dedicated to the tender art of the kiss. While the curtain begins to lift on this tale, I must caution you here within is no Rembrandt, it is no magnum opus. Some would call it simply love.
At sixteen years of age I had ego cracks and introverted social identity issues that were to track my life for a decade more. Years later with grey at my temples I came to understand the social isolation, poor self esteem, peaks of colors and intensity that marked my adolescence as definitions of the autistic spectrum. I knew the humiliation of misunderstanding, the over reactions in crowded interactions, the dishonesty, and the undefined shame. I knew I was different, I just didn’t understand why. Never said to those around me were my intuitions that could read their thoughts without the knowledge of how to process such complexities. I could understand their sins, but I could not bear them.
The description above might help you understand why extraordinary things happen to me, on a special anniversary in mid April when the weather is perhaps warmer than it should be. May be it is on that engagement at a certain time I can smell Point Loma and see the Pacific black against strange heavens. It’s possible that I’m an awkward sixteen year old, and she’s very close before me, pressing warmer against me, guiltless chocolate curly locks cascading into my senses. Wet explosions of aroma giving birth to falling stars in my hurricane. Girl to boy closer in my spring then anyone ever dared approach before. Lips filled with red question and curiosity asking for me. It is that I am seeing colors again, and yes I am helpless.
My first kiss by the sea will never fall asleep while April lingers. The blessing for a confused reclusive boy into the acceptance of desire has equalized many of this man’s bumpy introspections. When my sin grows too heavy, when I sense I am apart, or the tremors in my left hemisphere mixes shadows with my right, I am there, and my first acceptance is real, as she whispers “beautiful”.
The truth above does not negate the blessing that my life has become it adds to it. I look at my gorgeous wife who will be the last to kiss me, and the young beautiful blonde goddess and stunning olive skinned Messiah we have brought into this world. I understand even more the importance of that first kiss upon this extraordinary image YHWH has drawn into me. I tried to locate my first kiss a few seasons ago only to discover she had been the victim of a drunk driver tragically ending her life. She was the first to touch me and let me know how beautiful I am and I hope her life was filled with happiness until it’s end. – DS 11/23/2013
- Why is a kiss a KISS. (controledchaos.wordpress.com)
- First kiss (familybraid.wordpress.com)
- Autistic Vision (davisbrotherlylove.wordpress.com)