The Long Memory of the Body

 

I was amazed at how easy it was to lean into you while your arm claimed my waist on that bench. Your palm was pressed against my skin, under my sweater, pulling me closer, tighter. For once, the slowing of time in my body didn’t embarrass me. You had known me first, though you were yet to know me. I reckoned that now was a good time.

In the middle of our conversation, when I was least expecting it, you kissed me. After all these years of wondering, it felt surprisingly familiar.

I remember how your lips lingered against mine, how your smell was exactly as I had imagined it. It felt less like a beginning and more like something resumed, as if we did this every day.

I marvelled at how tactile you were, all through the evening. Touch seemed to be your chosen language—your arm brushing mine, your thigh comfortably resting against my leg, your hand reaching out to press my knee whenever you needed to feel me next to you. I welcomed it. It was endearing.

I have had enough of words. This suited me.

Looking back at that evening now, I am left in a daze. Fleeting, almost unreal. I had to remind myself that it happened. But what remains unmistakably real is you. You have stayed the same.

I keep going back to that kiss, the kiss that had been building up over 45 years.  I’d closed my eyes when you leaned forward. When our lips touched, I felt the comfort and joy of being seven-years old all over again. There was passion in the strength of your grip and a quiet ease of your hand against my skin.  

It felt good to feel alive again, to feel the want within me reciprocating your touch. You were as tender as I remembered you, your silent grace matching that beautiful face from all those years ago. There was always something luminous about you, as though you were lit from within.

I did not feel apologetic. I did not feel inadequate. I gave myself into the moment without caution or guilt. We took our time. Nothing was hurried or forced. It was just as it was meant to be.

Today, after all these years, I know I have hardened inside. I am not the innocent seven-year-old anymore. My faith in benevolence, in simple goodness, does not come as easily as it once did. But you have retained the light within you. Seeing you again, I felt a revival in me, of something I thought I had lost. The return of a quiet trust, seeing you as you had been. That was enough.

I have carried you with me all these years. Despite the time and distance, despite life taking over, something has held. I see that now. And perhaps that’s all that matters- not how much was lost or delayed, but that we can still recognise what remains and begin from there.