Pale-Rose Warm

Warm, in the childhood of me, can be invoked by color. Orange warm, for example, the color of the burning element in the gas radiator that heated the canvas tent buried in the snow at deer camp 10,000 feet deep in the Uinta mountains; forest green warm, the color of the quilt I would wrap around myself late Thanksgiving morning after the snow bowl (the savage football game twelve year old boys play); dark blue warm, the color of the vest I would wear on those long winter walks with the Greek in the snow ruts to and from making memories; or red warm, the color of Diane Clawson's coat as she climbed the hill to my father's house the Christmas afternoon she called and asked if she could come visit me in my thirteen year.
    Actually, her coat was not really dark enough to be red or light enough to be pink, it was more of a pale-rose...so it is a pale-rose warm I remember from that Christmas. I remember the pale-rose coat with white faux fur around the hood, the zipper that was covered with big white buttons, the elastic that cinched at the waist, and the bottom that belled at the hips.
    I don't remember where Diane lived. She came that summer to spend her out-of-school time with her grandmother who lived on the flat part of the street where I grew up. She returned on Thanksgiving and then again at Christmas. I remember she was my girlfriend. I don't remember how she became my girlfriend. When you are thirteen and surrounded by boy gods like Chuck and Greg and David and Mike, you would think that winning the affection of the beautiful new girl would be a bigger memory. But I was content to be the boyfriend.
    The letters she sent that fall were filled with poetry and emotion. The letters I returned were probably filled with my favorite songs and why the Saints could win the Super Bowl. Her letters were written in green ink on gray stationary, her words were big and round and in a straight line, I'm sure my letters proved how hard I tried to make the words legible. Her letters made me feel alive. I wonder what my letters did for her.
    That Christmas, I remember sitting in my upstairs room watching her leave her grandmother's front door, zip and then button her pale-rose coat, and turn toward the hill. I don't believe I was a voyeur (at least in a bad way). It's just that we don't often have the opportunity to watch our own memories being built from that vantage point. I don't think I had the strength to not look.
    Then she was at my door...
    My heart stopped beating, my lungs stopped accepting breath, and I don't think I blinked...that is how I remember it. In her white-gloved hand, she held a bright green box with red ribbon. I reached to help her with her pale rose coat. "Hello," I said. I held the coat in one hand and placed my other hand on her back. Diane smiled at me. In all my years since then, I have come to know that no power exists that could have stopped me from smiling back. That became pale-rose warm.
    Smash cut to the backseat of a darkened Chrysler later that night. Diane was there, so was my little sister, my young father was in the front seat with his father. I don't remember if I asked Diane to the movies or if she asked me. For all I know, my grandfather, not known for subtlety, asked her for me.
    The front of the old Ritz Theater glowed gold on most winter nights. Amid the constant honking of horns and the smell of popcorn, it was where thirteen year olds went to be. Diane was there with me, not Chuck or Greg or David or Mike. My pocket filled with my mother's money and my head filled with my father's dating advice, I was standing warm in the glow. The last thing my father did as we exited the car was slip me another dollar. "What's this for?" I asked. He smiled and said, "You'll see."
    That dollar went to my sister to leave us alone. It was worth it.
    The close up of two hands clasped on Diane's pale-rose covered lap faded slowly to the backseat of the Chrysler. I didn't want to say goodnight. My father pulled up next to the snow-lined driveway. Diane looked at me, as did my sister, my father, and my grandfather. I was center stage and I forgot my lines. My father finally said with a smile and a nod, "You walk her to the door, Fred. We'll wait here."
    When you are thirteen, there is no concept of tomorrow. I was sure that this would be the last time I would ever see Diane. I held her hand as we walked to the door. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to touch her. But I knew I was being watched. I felt like an elephant at a tea party. Every move I made was too big or too clumsy. What I really wanted to do was run away. I leaned in and then leaned away. I stepped forward then stepped back. It was cold and quiet and I was being watched. I didn't hear the window roll down or my father tell his father to leave me alone. What I did hear was my too loud grandfather say too loudly, "kiss her, goddamn it." I didn't.
    I don't think I saw Diane Clawson again.
    That summer she didn't come to visit her grandmother. Or at least she didn't come visit me. She did write letters. They became less poetic and farther apart. Later that summer I was in Yellowstone Park with my family. I went off by myself, hoping, I guess, to run into a bear. I thought I saw Diane. I ran down to the fire. It wasn't Diane. I met a bunch of kids my age. We spent the rest of the evening, late into the night, being fourteen around a fire. Jemmi looked like Diane, I told her that. But she was different. My grandfather wasn't around and I remembered my lines. Jemmi asked about Diane. I told her about the pale-rose coat and the movies. She laughed and wrapped me around her back like a cape. She listened until I was done talking. Then we didn't talk anymore. Yellowstone flame blue warm is one more color that will always invokes the childhood of me.