I’ve been rearranging photo albums, consolidating Jesse’s pictures and my pictures in chronological order (which has proved harder than anticipated), so for the past few days all I’ve been looking at are pictures of Jesse and me in high school.
Here is a memory: The Bonds had just moved back to Florida from Texas, where they had been living for a few years, and Becki and I had spent the day at the La Cita pool, and there are flashes—hot May sunshine, the pool shockingly clear and blue and cold, our hair smelling like chlorine, our skin like sunscreen and summer. And then we sat in the townhouse they were staying in while their house was being built, and the air conditioning was cold, and Jesse was on the couch playing “Wonderwall” on the guitar, and I thought, Now that is beautiful. And I had no idea then that the moment was the beginning of anything, that it was anything more than the moment. Which made it even more lovely—just a moment, just listening to a boy play a guitar after a day spent at a pool. I was sixteen.
And then the year after that, building a gingerbread house together in my parents’ kitchen, decorating the Christmas tree after Thanksgiving dinner. Hard to believe that was nine years ago, that we have seen every May since then together, that we have seen every decorated Christmas tree. We never have made another gingerbread house, though.
(Remember when I told you my mom painted our living room bright pink? Oh yeah…)
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Nine Years Ago
I’ve been rearranging photo albums, consolidating Jesse’s pictures and my pictures in chronological order (which has proved harder than anticipated), so for the past few days all I’ve been looking at are pictures of Jesse and me in high school.
Here is a memory: The Bonds had just moved back to Florida from Texas, where they had been living for a few years, and Becki and I had spent the day at the La Cita pool, and there are flashes—hot May sunshine, the pool shockingly clear and blue and cold, our hair smelling like chlorine, our skin like sunscreen and summer. And then we sat in the townhouse they were staying in while their house was being built, and the air conditioning was cold, and Jesse was on the couch playing “Wonderwall” on the guitar, and I thought, Now that is beautiful. And I had no idea then that the moment was the beginning of anything, that it was anything more than the moment. Which made it even more lovely—just a moment, just listening to a boy play a guitar after a day spent at a pool. I was sixteen.
And then the year after that, building a gingerbread house together in my parents’ kitchen, decorating the Christmas tree after Thanksgiving dinner. Hard to believe that was nine years ago, that we have seen every May since then together, that we have seen every decorated Christmas tree. We never have made another gingerbread house, though.
(Remember when I told you my mom painted our living room bright pink? Oh yeah…)