The Memory. (Lesbian Stories)

Oh memories.

 I rounded the trees quickly before continuing my sprint. The trees were swaying carefully in the wind, letting the summer whispers wisp through the forest grounds. As I ran, I stumbled upon the familiar clearing that kept the musty log cabin hidden in edge. 

 The cabin has sat there for many years, vacant and in great condition. Because the outside is covered in vines and moss, people believe it's dusty and destroyed on the inside. If I say so myself, the lean on the right side only adds character. Only if they went inside, they would realize the great use for this cabin. Otherwise, they  will dust it off their shoulders by taking one side-glance.

 Since we found it, Leslie and I practically claimed it as our safe house. Or in times like these, our 'let's-escape-the-real-world-and-enter-the-world-of-music' haven. We've made many covers of songs in that cabin, along with several original songs. All of which helped us get closer together. 

 Everyone's got problems, everyone has issues, and yet, not many have a place to escape from it. But we come here, and let it all go in our music.

 Not only do we create our own music here, we stay here on weekends. We'll give the simple but effective excuse of 'I'll be at her house tonight'. Sometimes we'll just leave and come here for days, weeks, maybe even months. Leslie and I have spent most of our lives here. Doing what you'd only think were told in stories. 

 Long before we began to sing together, we created a scrapbook collection. Every time we finished a new book, we set it in one of seventeen boxes labeled, 'The Kaisley Chronicles'.

 Obviously we've had many captured memories. Most of the time, we kept spare keep-sakes and hid them inside of large, unused books. Others, we taped or glued them into the scrapbook along with the many pictures we took. 

 Never did we use a digital camera. Anytime we could, we would use the old Polaroid camera we found in the attic of our haven. If we couldn't use the Polaroid, we would use the other camera that kept the same design. What kept us using the Polaroid is how we couldn't know what the picture looked like, until we finished drying the film. 

 I hopped up to the porch of the cabin, swinging the door open to the familiar pine and dust scented room. The Polaroid hung around my neck by the rope we once tied onto it. Seldom does the rope fall from the tight grasp it has to the bulky camera.

 As I looked around at the oh-so-familiar living room, a light strumming of guitar filled the upstairs loft. It sounded nice and soft, like the strumming of a soft love song. I moved to the sound. But, I listened to the awful screaming of the wooden boards beneath my feet as I walked. Only did I hope it not bother Leslie's work.

Nearing the stairs, my tattered converse caught against the hand-knitted rug. I smelt and watched the dust huff from the rug as it hit back against the wooden floor with a cough.The shudders of the steps followed behind as I trotted up the stairs in utter embarrassment.

Carefully, I bounced onto the landing of the loft. My shoes padded softly against the old carpet as I neared our work station. I was met with the sweet sound of our guitar being played along with shy singing. The lyrics sang were too quiet to comprehend, unless you have super amazing hearing. Which I never have.

 As I began tip-toeing to my normal position behind her, the music became clear to me. She obviously had a bad day. Either she fought with her family or she's been through another break-up. The lyrics spoke the kind of lyrics she has when she feels bad for not talking to her supposed crush.

'Oh sweetie, just notice me. Maybe you'll see that I'm here for you. I'll do everything plus two. Oh baby, don't push me away.'

 The notes felt like they were floating around the room. Each strum echoing against the walls with passion. It was if they were swirling around me, suffocating me with their meanings. As the last strum hit the air, the last set of lyrics hung in the echoes.

 My heart sank ten feet in my stomach, making me feel weighed down. Everything in me paused, keeping my breath hitched in my throat and my feet unable to move. But I managed to catch my breath and squeek. In return, Leslie turned around and shot me a faint smile. 

"Hey, Kay. Did you like what you heard?", She said faintly, a shy smile on her face.

I nodded, too caught in the moment to speak. I didn't like it. I loved it. And she probably knew that. She always does. But what I heard made my heart skip a beat. It was sang so smoothly, so softly, so beautfully. I think I fell all over again. It reminded me of a careful love. A first love.

The kind of love that makes you smile at just the sight of someone, but cry silently as they walk away. The kind that makes you trip over your feet and chuckle at your own awkwardness. But the kind that makes you want to hug them or to make them realize that you're here. You're here, and you like them. But they don't show how they care. 

That kind of love is the hardest. But oh so sweet to endure for the first time. A first love, so sweet, so innocent, but so awkward and so unforgiving.

The click of a pen filled the silent room. And a small chuckle followed. But the chuckle sounded so broken and helpless. My heart felt sour and glass-like. 

"Leslie, did he break up with you?", I cautiously asked, sitting beside her on the bench. 

And in the moment she sighed, the room became cold and it smelt more of filth than it has ever before. But it wasn't the kind of filth where it burnt your nose in disgust and antipathy. It was the filthy scent of dust and moss. The temperature, however, came from an open window to the right of where we were sitting. 

A puff of smoke erupted from her mouth as she chuckled again. Then, her hands set carefully upon the keys of the piano. By now, I figured she needed her space. She was upset, after all. I knew how she gets when she is upset. Space is needed and time is left to herself. I respected that of her. The ability to release her feelings into small, uncaptured songs and writings. And given time in certain amounts to get over it. I respected that.

I got up from the bench, giving her the rest of it to work with. And she moved to the middle of it before I had the chance to take a step towards the opened window. I released the sigh that has been aching to be released as I turned from her. 

My feet and the music where the only noise in the room, maybe besides the occasional chiming of a grasshopper's song.  The window was shut minutes ago, so the insects songs were muffled by that of thin glass. 

However, I was sat on the rug in the living room. There were books stacked and splayed all over the blackened wooden floors. A yellow gleam illuminated the shady room; casting shadows across the books and brightening the gloomy colors of the furniture. A shallow, lucid appearance showed on the wooden table that was pushed aside. 

I began skipping through pages of pictures and pasted memorabilia that was held in the dusted scrapbooks. They hadn't been opened in a long time, I could tell. And what a shame it's been that way. But upon seeing the memories of smiles and old hairstyles, I could see why they weren't opened often. They made you want to cry as you remembered the moments the photos were taken so vividly. And it was joyful and made you long for the feeling of the moment again. The feeling that was surrounding you at the time, the one you don't notice until you feel it again, looking back on it. 

Tears shyly slid down my face as the memories flashed and swirled through my mind. The feeling of the air peeking it's own remembrance. The sad music being played in the background did not help either. The memories were so sweet and so timid. But now, as we have grown up, the memories are oh so different.