I first saw Gaitha Moore
in the narrow halls
of Kansas High School,
1976.

A rural place,
quiet and unassuming,
where the graduating
class could fit
into a single photograph
without crowding.

Regretably,
I don’t recall us ever speaking—
not once.
Not regretable because she was beautiful,
though she was.
But because, as we passed between classes,
her eyes would meet mine.
And linger.

I was too young,
too unsure of myself
to understand what to do
with mutual attraction.
I mistook my silence for safety.
I mistook her gaze for mystery.
And I let the moment pass.
Again and again.

How many times I’ve wished I’d simply walked up to her and said,
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,
but you are the prettiest girl I have ever seen.”
Then turned and walked away.
If I was wrong,
she might have laughed with her friends,
and I would have survived relatively unscathed.
But if I was right—
if that look in her eyes was genuine desire —
not lust —
but the innocent and quiet hope of being noticed—
then who can say what might have bloomed?

Love, perhaps?
Or something gentler?
a friendship that would have lasted through the years?
A shared understanding?
A memory not tinged with regret?

Of all the things I’ve left undone, t
his one stings the most.
Not because I lost her, but because I never gave her the chance to be found.

Some doors never opened,
yet I still stand at them,
listening for the echo
of what might have been.

If this offering stirred something in you—
a memory,
a question,
a flicker of light—
you are welcome to share
your reflection below.
No need for eloquence.
No need for certainty.
Just a lantern,
gently placed.