There was new growth on the frangipani trees, promising delicate flowers in a couple of weeks, but at the moment they were far from Mary’s thoughts. She hardly noticed the first lilac blooms of the jacaranda tree swaying on the breeze either. Her mind was filled with sweet memories of her youth, memories stirred up by a few pages of blue paper that she had taken from the envelope that had arrived in her postbox this morning.

Angela, her sister, takes after their mother who used to write letters to everyone – sometimes even a letter a day, sharing news and titbits. She also has stuck to pen and paper for this, although she does have a laptop and uses Facebook and Twitter.

“That’s for fun and for work; a pen and paper is for love and saying: “You are special”, she always says. And maybe her news would have had less of an impact if she had sent it via Whatsapp. A handwritten letter is so… intense.

Bees were swarming on the Michealmas daisies , covering their legs with pollen for their hives, the whirring of their wings like the sigh of a night breeze. The slender branches of the jacaranda tree rained soft drops of moisture left by the early morning mist, making the garden smell of new life.

Why would the news of Kenneth’s death bring tears to her eyes? He belonged to a time when she was still a child and, although they corresponded for a while after that holiday, nothing had ever developed between them. Watching the clouds drift on the horizon she knew what a special part of her heart he held.

There was moonlight on his face as I watched him through half-closed eyes. Next to me one of the group moved in her sleep and from the front seat someone groaned: “Is the sun never going to come up?”

It was Christmas morning and we were sitting in a car overlooking the bay, waiting for daylight to picnic in the African sun. Last night’s party had spilled over into a drive down to the beach as everyone piled into the few vehicles available, young drivers not yet legal. We were sixteen going on grownup and filled with Christmas tree sparkles and opposite sex attractions…

For a moment Mary was distracted from her reverie by the noise of a lawnmower. She noticed the haze on the horizon promising cold weather was on the way. There was a rainbow in her vision and she realised there were tears running down her cheeks. Tears for a youth so lightly taken for granted: now painting a rainbow, filled with the spectrum of memories.

Above her head a jacaranda tree dropped it’s clusters of blooms wilfully and a bird twittered a song, jumping from branch to branch. It filled her mind with the memory of a tiny speck of a tree she had found in barren ground somewhere in the Karoo. The find had astounded her: what was a jacaranda tree doing in that area? She had sheltered it in a coffee tin through years of hardship, eventually to grace this permanent garden. Now it sheltered her with it’s strong branches and shadowy foliage, as she had known one day it would.

The boys were eager to offer their arms to the girls for comfort and we nestled in discomfort, sharing the excitement of cramped space. The arm around my shoulders was drawing me closer and I waited. I knew what he was thinking and I knew what he wanted: I had seen it through half-closed eyes around me. And I wanted it also. I have been kissed before; that was not the issue – I just wanted him to kiss me too…

With a shake of her head, Mary tried unsuccessfully to stop the flow of images rushing through her mind. Holidays with Grandma were always fun and that year was even better, having met the boy next door. He was no Adonis – not with his misshapen back and short stature, but he was fun. His name was Kenneth and he was so shy. Being seventeen gave him just enough bravado to ignore the fact that the girls mocked him and the boys used him only to cart them around in his Beetle, but who cared! Of course, he had no licence to drive, but the boys needed wheels to get to where the girls were and that put him right in the centre of the action!

I moved my head slightly, as if the shifting of his arms was raising me from my sleep. At the same time, I stretched my neck further backwards so that the moon could highlight my face. He held still; his eyes fixed on my mouth. Through my lashes I could see the intensity of feeling on his face and I had to force my body to be soft and pliant as in sleep.

Shall I open my eyes? Ask him to kiss me like they do in the movies? In my mind I could hear my voice speaking in a low, husky tone and my breath faltered of it’s own accord. I found myself to be too shy, too; instead, I parted my lips and could see him looking at me like Troy Donahue looked at Sandra Dee in ‘A Summer Place’. I stopped breathing.

A honey bee hovered in front of her face and Mary instinctively waved it away with the papers in her hand. At the bottom of the hill cars were racing down the highway, but the noise only reached her with sound like the lapping of waves on rocks at low tide. Next door she could hear her neighbours talking and the clinking of glasses against each other. No doubt Mavis was doing the breakfast dishes; which reminded her that she herself hasn’t had breakfast yet. However, she was loath to move. The early morning calm was soothing and being alone gave her the luxury of eating when it suited her. A couple of lilac blooms drifted down from the jacaranda overhead; one landing on her knee.

That film from her teenage years was on circuit again the other day and she had made a point of watching it. She waited in anticipation for the lovers to escape to the beach bungalow; for Sandra to tell Troy the story of King Kong – which was the movie they were supposed to have gone to watch. But it did not have the same charm as it did then: maybe we get too cynical as we grow older. With a chuckle, she threw her head back against the chair.

His face moved towards mine and the moon was no longer shining on it. I opened my eyes and looked into his; then closed them again as his lips touched mine. All of a sudden my lips were no longer thin lines on which you could hardly see the lipstick; they were full and soft like Sandra’s and I am sure Troy’s were as warm and moist as Kenneth’s. There was a brilliance in the darkness behind my eyelids and yet, I could see the stars dipping into the ocean and spouting waves of molten silver.

There were tears on my cheeks: tears of wonder about the movement of the universe. Of knowing I am a woman with a power stronger than those of men’s muscles. Being kissed and loved in innocence; enjoying a boy’s caress and the unknown feelings it ignited without fear, because you did not know the danger, yet.

Someone opened the car door and the morning breeze brought her back to reality. Low tide was washing around black rocks with watery fingers and I laughed and touched his cheek with mine.

Mary opened her eyes and realized she had actually fallen asleep. A butterfly was resting on the hand that held the letter and she lifted it slowly so as not to startle the insect. Her sister, Agnes, was part of the crowd on the beach that night; maybe that is why she took the time to pass on the news of death. Maybe she even thought there was something special between her sister and that boy then. She would have been right. That was her first tryst with “grown-up” feelings, and they were not explored.

Slowly she folded the pages together and replaced them in the envelope, but the memories flooded around her still. Life turned out to be different than that holiday as growing up usually does. Parting from Kenneth had not hurt much: they were both too young and too innocent for that.

The morning breeze which had spilt into the car did not cool Kenneth’s embrace as he held her against his chest. She felt safe and loved and special and she wanted it to never stop, but of course, reality would end that and reality was the laughing and scrambling out of the cars of the rest of the crowd. To avoid the teasing they followed and so the spell was broken, forever.

The breeze coming up the valley had cooled and Mary clutched her arms together across her chest to keep warm. She had better go back inside. She allowed herself to stay a moment longer, head resting against the chair. She’d make a special trip to the shop and get some nice paper and envelopes to make her reply. Agnes was right; receiving a written letter is precious.