A Walk in the Park

Kate The first time I touched Kate was after mass in our local church. It was on the feast of The Assumption: a day committed to the celebration of the Virgin physically rising to heaven and thereafter having a permanent physical presence there. We were aged eleven or twelve at the time; I’ve never bothered to work it out exactly. And Kate wore a pink dress with a white sash across her left shoulder. The sash ran down towards her waist, round her back, returned, moved upwards and out of sight. And she brushed against me briefly as if I were part of her even then. I looked to see who she was and for a moment I thought I recognized her. I certainly felt something I still can’t define. And that seemingly arbitrary touch led me to feel I wanted to keep her close always. For this life and hopefully afterwards. For eternity, along with the Virgin in heaven. It was a very basic contact. I was leaving the church and she eased past me. The exit was crowded, so we moved closer together and her dress – pink as a flaring sunset – touched me like a caress. Indeed, I thought it was exactly that. And I felt terror briefly. I didn’t like being touched. I still don’t. Not even brushed against. But I accepted this one willingly and the occasion imprinted itself, and Kate herself of course, onto me for the rest of my life. Though it was branded deeper into me later, as if she owned me. And I suppose she did at that time. And she still does. That feast day virtually deified the Virgin. And Kate looked like a goddess too that day. Though I’m not suggesting an association took place that caused me to set her apart from others. Nor that this incident infused me with a living religious icon. Just that it might have. She certainly made an impact I’ve never been free from. Because I felt it. I indulged it. Indeed, I’m indulging it now. Because the pursuit of some dreams is truly endless.