“April gave us springtime, and the promise of the flowers … We knew no time for sadness, that’s the road we each had crossed. We were living a time meant for us, and even when it would rain, we would laugh it off. I’ve got pieces of April, I keep them in a memory bouquet. I’ve got pieces of April, it’s a morning in May.”
–Dave Loggins’ “Pieces of April,” performed by Three Dog Night
Lithe and beautiful, she attracted attentions of confident young men. I was such a young man. In those wonderful days of bellbottoms and eight-track music. In those warm and invincible days of youth. Somewhere between being a cowboy and a hippie.
She floated across the campus green, generous with her smile and the long, dark hair trailing her perfect shoulders. I caught my breath as I watched with the others. Days and nights, she haunted my vision. Gliding under amber sodium light late at night, she stabbed the darkness aside between light.
She awakened emotions just beneath my ribs, longing for tenderness and wild passion. I saw her both as an angel and the demon of my dreams. I knew she was out of my reach and hard to catch as a wind in a moth net. She could be cruel and this she did not know. She caused my mind to falter and teased my longings. I ached to love her as much as I wanted to curse her. I wished to throw objects in her path as I would a dust devil—my lungs bursting with suppressed screams. She shattered hearts and mindfulness in her wake. But, I loved her from afar. She hosted some memorable gatherings before which I might have crashed inadvertently. This was a perfect April evening with the Sandia Mountains aglow in the late light.
The Doobie Brothers were singing “China Grove” that warm April night, streaming from someone’s eight-track tape player. It was very late and those who were not passed out had left for their dorms. In the soft glow of the lava lamp she cast a wiry shadow upon the wall as she watered her hanging potted plants. I sat there sunken in a chair watching her dance upon her wide, soft bed.
“You want to finish off this last bong,” she asked after what seemed an eternity where I felt invisible to her. I nodded and we finished the party’s weed. We sat close on the bed. She breathed in soft and deep, eyes closed and head held high. I sat nervous with no words to share. We sat there, she in her yoga position deep in the flow of cannabis. I sat uncomfortably with my cowboy boots planted firmly on the floor. I watched her as the crimson light played upon her features. Her oval face framed in cascade of dark curls. Strong, full lips and proud nose under the natural arch of a perfect eyebrows. Her breath came silently. The hard edge of the music waned somewhat. To the chorus of Bad Company’s “Love Me Somebody” I found myself singing along in stretched yearning. She reached out and laid her hand upon mine. Crazy, but I don’t even remember what tribe she was from.
Really, a nice reaching back into the last century is all that should be read into this piece. No disclaimer.
