I’ve been remembering spots of my childhood through ghost smells. Imagined whiffs of wet grass and cold mud. Standing on the field at Willamette park as the fog bank passed over. The smattering of geese shit across the field and the sweet stained silver shin guards bearing a faded Diadora logo.

I remember the scent of thyme and bay leaves as a tomato base beef stew bubbled in the white and blue paisley crockpot in the kitchen.

I remember the spiced vapors of incense that filled my room as I read through stories on my computer. Leaning back in the my grey desk chair that so desperately wanted to be a recliner.

After I venture past the scents that my brain evokes— I find myself peering in at moments I’d forgotten.

Walking along Clinton street as I typed out messages on a Kyocera prepaid phone. Texting my first official girlfriend and wondering if I’d referee enough soccer games on the weekend to pay for the monthly bill. I’d have to go to the Rite Aid on 39th— walking past Richmond elementary and it’s often desolate field. Past Loprinzi’s gym where real bodybuilders slinked in and out of. I’d buy my scratch off phone cards and top up my account. Doing all that so I could talk to a girl I didn’t have the courage to kiss even after she said “yes” to being my girlfriend.

It takes a special sort of anxiety to not snag a kiss after that. Somewhere in my oft meandering teenage brain I didn’t believe everything that unfolded.

I took some ballroom dance classes— learned swing, foxtrot, the Charleston, salsa, the tango, how to waltz and more from this ruddy faced woman named Madam Rouge. She had a hell of an energy to her— strong and stocky, she had no trouble tossing me around during examples (nor did she have any problem with any of the other three boys in our group).

But back to faltering confidence and first attempts— I had managed to charm one of the girls that also joined the class. Kelly was sweet and shy. Easily the most two footed of the dancers in the room. But we enjoyed each others company before dance practice started— and I began to leave school a little early to pick her up from her all girl’s high school so we could walk to practice together.

Before we’d gotten to the official part— I’d decided if I was going to ask someone out I had to do it in style. I wanted it to be memorable— and a younger version of me didn’t know the difference between presence and presents.

So, I got us some food from a Thai restaurant (recurring theme in my personal life— both single and dating) and added in some fortune cookies (which are not at all a Thai thing). Inside one of the fortune cookies was a little note I’d written— “Kelly, will you go out with me?” She laughed in shock and then said yes. Both stoked and petrified at doing something that felt semi-permanent (to my teenage brain) I think my embrace was a hurried hug— if there was one at all. I remember seeing half moon stains under her arms and was glad I wasn’t alone in being nervous.

When the class ended and summer popped around the corner, the issue of Kelly living out in Happy Valley, neither of us owning cars, and her family being religious and completely unaware of me gave me a quick decision to end things.

So on Clinton street with my prepaid Kyocera I called her and apologized that I wouldn’t be able to see her and that we should end things.

I was relieved and mortified at the same time. Lacking in courage to see how it could play out— but also not compelled by a deep desire, so relatively honest with myself.

That was my sophomore year of high school and it wouldn’t be until the fall of my senior year that I’d make out with someone (jumping past kisses I’d received during spin the bottle games).

I wish I’d spent a little more time dancing— or continued to learn ballroom after. I think I went to a second session, or maybe I meant to and never did. Those memories don’t come to mind. Unlike old phones, older fears, and the gradual growth of confidence and self awareness.