Sweet is the Virgin
Perfection doesn’t falter. It is, by definition, as tasteful as a fine wine abandoned by time to the gallows of dust and cobwebs that decorate the shelves of a forlorn cellar.
Holly was that kind of perfection. Her skin was as ripe as the rinds of a freshly picked apple while her hair hung in the straight arks of an auburn hue which burned with such intensity it was a threat to the rays of the sun which can sting and blur the retinas of your looking eyes.
As we walked through the barren underbrush of the wooden terrain in which we hiked, I was awed by the muse of her beauty and the inspiration of her body.
Her laughter was as lyrical and as welcoming as any famous sonata which was composed at the hands of the most brilliant minds in succession prose of jubilant rhythm and enduring requisites.
She was the only girl I ever loved, she was my first and although I was as scared as a child in the darkened bedroom of a thunderous midnight, I drunk from the well of her enduring spirit and the undiluted capital of her strength.
As we climbed the sandstone of the rocky cliff, she looked back at me and smiled. I wanted our first time to be a memory she could look back in a time of reprieve and anxiety in hopes to offer her the same solace she so freely had given me.
When we reached the top of Serenity Bluff we could see the eye of everything that surrounded us as effectively as the hand of God opens the windows of breeze from the falling airs of Heaven.
“This place is beautiful,” she announced in her evangelist voice.
“It doesn’t compare to the vision I see that stands before me,” I proclaimed as I placed a honeysuckle behind her ears.
We walked to the edges of the eternal rocks and our lips met in a succession that froze time immemorial.
I grew as stiff and hard as the garden of towering rocks beneath the soles of our feet.
I grabbed the contours of her hips with the calculated promise of my hands and pushed the Angel from my arms into the garden of calloused rocks below the height of the cliff.
I wasn’t sure if I heard the snapping of branches or the splintering of bones as she crashed to the weight of the rocks below.
As I looked at her frail and limp body, I was amazed to see the crimson color of her blood fade to the dark color of oil in the contact of the dirt.
The first time is the murder of innocence. The second time will be a brush stroke of art.
A boy describes his first time with the woman he loves.
copyright 2009 by John Braxton Sparks