We basked in sunshine that summer. If I remember nothing else, I'll remember that our eyes reflected the sun. Your father will say that he doesn't remember it ever raining so much in one season, but all I remember is the sunshine.
Looking back, perhaps it had to do with where I was, or who I was with. The big brick house I rented for the summer - two hours away from home - filled with memories quicker than I could take notice. My two jobs at the camera store and restaurant had me busy waiting tables and talking to old men that couldn't believe digital photography would ever become a "thing." But those were just tiny details. His sandy blonde hair and his old motorcycle fill in the gaps that aren't filled with sunshine. Glasses of cheap white wine we pretended to like, clinking together on the porch mixed with picnics and laughter fill in the other spaces. But in reality it is all a blur.
I suppose that is what happens when you are in love, you blur everything together into one giant heep of goosebumps and deep sighs.
Do you know that you used to write me poetry? It always rhymed, was extremely silly, and made me laugh. Laying on my pillow next to the neighbor's flowers he had plucked out of the yard on his way over. I'm sure they made fun of him for it. I'm sure he got some major slack with his man-friends. But it was exactly what won your mother's guarded and protected heart over. It was either that, or the sandy blonde hair and old motorcycle.
I know, I can't remember a single date we went on that summer. I don't remember going to the movies or out to eat. But I do remember whispering secrets to each other from my bedroom so my roommates wouldn't hear - our exciting new love filling every thought and breath I took that summer. I remember the poetry and the flowers. I remember meeting his parents for the first time. I remember him meeting mine. But most of all I remember that motorcycle and his long sandy blonde hair.
Part One
Part Two
Part Four
Part Five
Looking back, perhaps it had to do with where I was, or who I was with. The big brick house I rented for the summer - two hours away from home - filled with memories quicker than I could take notice. My two jobs at the camera store and restaurant had me busy waiting tables and talking to old men that couldn't believe digital photography would ever become a "thing." But those were just tiny details. His sandy blonde hair and his old motorcycle fill in the gaps that aren't filled with sunshine. Glasses of cheap white wine we pretended to like, clinking together on the porch mixed with picnics and laughter fill in the other spaces. But in reality it is all a blur.
I suppose that is what happens when you are in love, you blur everything together into one giant heep of goosebumps and deep sighs.
Do you know that you used to write me poetry? It always rhymed, was extremely silly, and made me laugh. Laying on my pillow next to the neighbor's flowers he had plucked out of the yard on his way over. I'm sure they made fun of him for it. I'm sure he got some major slack with his man-friends. But it was exactly what won your mother's guarded and protected heart over. It was either that, or the sandy blonde hair and old motorcycle.
I know, I can't remember a single date we went on that summer. I don't remember going to the movies or out to eat. But I do remember whispering secrets to each other from my bedroom so my roommates wouldn't hear - our exciting new love filling every thought and breath I took that summer. I remember the poetry and the flowers. I remember meeting his parents for the first time. I remember him meeting mine. But most of all I remember that motorcycle and his long sandy blonde hair.
Part One
Part Two
Part Four
Part Five
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