A stranger sat at her table, claiming to be her soulmate. He wore sandals; his hair was long, scraggly looking, and his clothing ough. Before he walked in the door, she had been working on a story, trying to remember the names of some boys who sang in a rock group when she was younger. But it had been too many years. She sat at the table resting when the stranger walk in. After he sat down and spoke to her, she temporarily forgot about her story. Who was he?
When he stood and walked to her side of the table, he reached for her hand. Looking deep into his gentle eyes, she yielded to his touch. As she stood to face the stranger, she knew who he was.
“Ronnie,” she said, “I can’t remember the names of the boys in your band”.
Before speaking again, he led her to a sofa across the room. Sitting down, he gently pulled her head to rest against his chest. Then, softly running his fingers through her hair, he said,
“Now, tell me about the boy whose name you can remember”.
I.
It was 1963, and my parents
were moving to Jacksonville, Florida.
Why me? Cheerleader, in the 7th grade,
in love with the boy of my dreams.
I practiced writing my name-to-be
—Mrs. Lynn James Benoit —
But what did it matter to parents
bent on their own way?
A southern girl takes her vows seriously
— I promised undying love —
packed pink curlers, record player,
bobby socks, tight skirt, burgundy sweater;
wished S.J. Welsh Middle School
every possible win — and moved
to another planet.
II.
Jacksonville’s highways were paved
with diamonds glittering in the hot sun.
Daddy drove to Jax beach.
Mama saw them first — whitecaps
rolling high above the skyline,
then folding over, it seemed, on top
of the road. I thought Beach Blvd. ran
straight to the depths of the ocean.
Daddy drove beneath tall archways
onto sand, where miles of white
met crashing surf, and long
wooden boardwalks lined
with hot dog stands, loud music,
surf boards and boys — beach boys,
dark tans, sun-bleached hair —
III.
But Heaven on the east coast was buried
under the glum of the west side.
Clumpy saddle oxford shoes,
pageboy haircut — old fashioned.
I chopped off my dishwater blond hair,
threw socks and shoes to the back
of the closet and stayed in my room
while my family watched Hoss
and Little Joe ride the Ponderosa.
Who needs friends, I reasoned.
Roy Orbison sang “Only the Lonely,”
“Blue Bayou” –
I wrote poems to Lynn.
IV.
Mama had a plan:
Cut my hair,
add a permanent.
My baby-fine hair
frizzed and burned!
Next, penny loafers,
matching leather belt,
bleeding madras shirt,
burgundy A-line skirt,
my own bottle of
English Leather cologne.
“Now!” she said.
V.
Friday found me at a drive-in
on a double date.
My friend introduced me to boys
parked on the left side of our car.
During intermission, one of them
asked my friend for my number.
He called the next morning:
“We’re going swimming…”
I saw rolling waves, sand,
falling in love with the miracle boy
walking the shores of my soul.
“…in a canal,” he said.
I saw bottomless pits, dark waters,
unknown monsters swimming
through murky depths.
“Come with me,” he laughed,
“I’ll show you heaven on earth.”
We packed fried chicken, drinks
and seven other kids
into a borrowed car.
VI.
The place was like home —
soft Saint Augustine grass,
shade trees reaching
across deep water.
I sat on the ground
running my fingers
through thick velvet grass
while the others lined up
to jump from a rope in a tree.
He held my hand and led me
to the top of the tree.
If I kept my eyes open, pumping
my legs as soon as I hit water,
I did not go very deep.
“Let’s jump two at a time.
It’s easier on the bottom
of the rope,” he promised.
I felt the wind in my face,
a thick rope clutched
between fingers — and fear,
if I did not let go,
I’d swing back and hit the tree.
We jumped.
When his foot hit the top of my head
I lost all faith — breaking the water
a second before him — I sank
deeper and deeper — I knew
I would never see
Florida sunshine again!
Fighting my way to the surface,
I climbed on shore, trembling.
He wrapped me in a towel
and told me to follow him
to the other side of the tree.
VII.
When I could talk, I told him
I hated Florida, hated my parents,
hated my hair. I told him my aunt
believed out of sight was out of mind,
but Granny said absence made the heart
grow fonder. I didn’t know which
was true, but I was afraid
my friends would forget me.
When I quit crying, he said,
“In Louisiana you call this a bayou.
We call them canals. Some of ours
are man-made but they are the same.
I don’t want you to leave, but
if you do, I won’t forget you.”
He liked my Cajun accent —
my scraggly hair.
“Boys should have long hair
and girls should have short,” he said.
His father was a cross-country
truck driver. “If you leave,
one day I’ll come knocking
on your door. I’ll jump
in his truck and I’ll find you —
even in Louisiana.
I’m different. I want to be free —
like a bird flying over this water.
And I want my own band.”
He told me of a band in England —
a group people did not like.
“Especially their leader,” he said.
“Mick’s a real rebel. They call them
the Rolling Stones. Have you ever heard
‘a rolling stone gathers no moss’?
Well, that's me," he said, leaning
back in the grass. “I want to fly
through the world with no worries.”
His favorite song was Heart of Stone.
I didn’t know who Mick was,
I had never met a truck driver —
but I knew I had met someone
I would never forget. And that day,
on the banks of a Florida canal —
I learned to be still. I learned
to look out over the water.
And I fell in love for the very last time.
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