It’s one of those blockbuster-movie,
opening-scene kind of days.
A brisk California-like morning filmed
on location in Vermont,
where clouds look like cotton balls and
the sun creates a dreamy haze.
When I wake up on these days
I reminisce about sitting next to you.
Cup holders and cigarette cartons
between us, the whole day
laid out in front of us for miles.
I remember the red shirt,
though I know it’s my mind
mixing up memories and flooding you
back to me in bulk.
It all felt possible.
Talks of forever and someday and eventually.
And each time the sun moved closer to the west,
I was thankful for another moment with you.
But sad because it was one more day
we’d never get back.
We’d never be this young and
tomorrow we’d be wiser, less prone to
feeling and more apt to thoughts.
I turn the radio up and we sing along
a little louder, your voice
always one step flat.
Staring out the open window,
tree leaves become greener as we pass.
And I try to forget time,
realizing your hand on my leg is key.
Tracing the ridges in your dark skin,
I close my eyes
and let the sun cloak my face.
In that moment, I smile
for I am all here.
And so are you.
Author: Nicole Cameron
Assistant Editor: Hilda Carroll/Editor: Catherine Monkman