When We First Met

I remember when we first met.
You said I stank while I thought I smelt good
for a boy who’d be playing all day
in the sun with a ball and a stick
and a small dog with a big bark.

You were sitting in the shade of a paperbark,
tearing strips from the tree,
which you were rolling into tubes
and binding with string made from grass;
you said they were Egyptian parchments.

You were in the company of a porcelain doll
and a rather grumpy-looking teddy bear;
the doll you called Nefertiti;
the bear you called Tutankhamen.
I thought you sounded exotic and clever.

I stood outside the line of shade,
scuffing my dirty feet to make little dust clouds
until you chastised me into stillness.
Then you spoke to the doll and the bear
like you were talking to real live people.

You spoke of pyramids and promises on papyrus,
of days lost in desert sands dreaming of oases;
of camels and slaves and grand adventures,
all the while answering for both your toys
in made up voices rich and full of character.

I had no idea what you were talking about
but I couldn’t take my eyes off you.
The summer sun glare hid your features
but it also made you glow like an angel;
you had me completely and utterly enchanted.

I wanted to ask what your name was
but my mouth was so dry I could hardly speak
so everything I said sounded garbled and thick;
you teased me about this mercilessly,
then started on my clothes and my haircut.

But you must have seen my expression
because the next thing I heard was your laugh.
You apologised and said you weren’t serious
then invited me to sit in the shade with you,
but all I could do was stand frozen in the sun.

Again you laughed at my expression
and continued laughing until I moved.
I stepped into the shade and into your spell;
I squatted in the dirt near the grumpy bear,
not disturbing any more dust than absolutely necessary.

It was then you told me you thought I smelt
but I knew you liked me because you smiled too.
And you kept looking at me from under your bangs.
Then you asked if I could sing ‘Frere Jacques’?
I shook my head as you started singing.

Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques,
Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?
Sonnez les matines. Sonnez les matines.
Din, din, don. Din, din, don.

When I didn’t join in you shook your head and tutted
and asked if I knew ‘Sur le pont d’Avignon’?
Again I shook my head but this time you saw.
You asked me what songs I could sing
and all I could think of was ‘God Save The Queen’.

You spent the afternoon teaching me songs
in a language I didn’t understand;
you made me feel like I was capable of learning
without the usual threat of constant punishment
hanging over my ten year old head.

We met at the tree throughout summer.
I yearned for those times without realising
I was madly, desperately and completely in love.
The mere thought of you waiting under the tree
was enough to send delicious spasms through me.

As the summer faded into autumn
and the days, as they do, into weeks and months,
we promised we would always stay together
even though we didn’t really understand what always meant
or even what together implied.

Too soon, I was forced back indoors in the name of education
instead of meeting you in the shade under the tree.
When the afternoon bell signalled my release,
I ran all the way to the paperbark tree,
anticipation speeding my steps like never before.

I sat there until the sun went down and the moon came up;
I sat there while my parents worried about me,
while the police were called and a search party formed;
I sat and waited for you to appear;
I stared at spots on the horizon wanting them to be you.

My father found me the next morning,
asleep under the tree and using leaves as a blanket.
He dragged me kicking and screaming home,
not before taking me past the police station to apologise,
and past the Volunteers tent to beg forgiveness.

By the time I got home I was sore, sorry and very hungry.
While I ate my breakfast my mother never let up;
my sisters teased me mercilessly and my big brother,
who was always kind to me, gave me a clip under the ear
for making him stay up all night looking for me.

But it was my Grandmother who gave me your letter.
You’d decorated the envelope with gum nuts and leaves.
I used my father’s silver letter opener to slice it open;
I couldn’t think of who would be writing to me
but when I saw it was from you I started crying.

My Grandmother wrapped me up in a big hug,
there there-ing me and telling me it would be alright.
She thought I was crying because I’d been punished;
little did she know I was actually crying happiness
because I knew I’d never lose you again.