My First Kiss
Do you remember your first kiss? I know I do. When I was nine years old, I lived in the windswept wheat basket of Saskatchewan, Canada. My family moved there from the states about three years earlier because my father was to be a missionary and his first mission involved the first nation children there. Our home was on a sixteen-acre property along with a church and our place was five miles from a reservation where many of the parishioners or would-be converts lived.
Life was pretty lonely growing up in rural Canada. We didn’t have company often and our nearest neighbors were about four miles down the road, so there were seldom playmates at my house. Chapel services, however, served as a break from the loneliness, especially if any children attended.
The church building was a humble and small. The paint was old and chipped and the rooms were often cold because the old furnace couldn’t keep up with the weather. I had claustrophobia sometimes when the folks would crowd into the narrow pews, towering over me and then would stand to sing.
One Sunday evening, I saw a boy that I’d never seen before. He had dark hair that curled up at the top of his shirt collar. His eyes were deep brown and inviting. He had a little mole off to the side of his full lips. He wore leather mukluks and some other traditional garb. Perhaps he was ten or eleven – an older man! He was a little taller than me. I don’t even know if he came with a parent or relative. I watched him on and off through the evening whenever I could see over the heads of some of the older people there. I caught him smiling a couple times at me too. I was embarrassed and hoped he didn’t notice how often I’d stared.
That night I asked my father if I could ride along with him when taking everyone home from church. His routine was to drive an old panel van around to pick up folks for church from houses on the reservation and return them after the services. The van was a rattle trap vehicle with wooden benches that were attached on the sides of the van for seats. There were no seatbelts and we would squeeze in as many passengers as possible.
He didn’t always let me go with him, but this night was different and I soon found myself on one of the wooden benches bouncing down the road seated next to the boy I had admired. His name, I found out, was Running Bear. We sat for what seemed the longest time next to each other silently. Some of the others in the van were chatting quietly. At one point when we were almost to the reservation, the van turned and the passengers were jostled together. It was then I felt his hand touch grasp mine softly. I almost jumped, but didn’t move. It was dark outside and dark in the back of the van. No one noticed but me. Before I could wonder what it meant and just as the van bounced over some pothole in the gravel road, Running Bear leaned over and gave me my first kiss. It was only a brush across the lips but it was electrifying. I felt tingles from my lips to my toes and a warmth I couldn’t explain. He didn’t say anything to me and I had no words either. Perhaps, we were spellbound, I know I was. A few moments later we dropped him off at his home. Since he was the last to depart, I was soon on my way back home with Dad, along with my major secret. Maybe I was even a woman now. Perhaps I was even in love, I didn’t know. I thought about him nonstop for several days, but as fate would have it, I never saw him again.
Over time memories of other loves and kisses have faded, but my thoughts of Running Bear are always warm, tender and as real as if it happened yesterday. His kiss so was innocent and yet revealed my heart to me. Running Bear, I will never forget you.
