I wrote this late last night when I should have been sleeping. A poem? A thought? An idea? A something…
Do you remember?
Because she remembers.
She remembers a thunderstorm and back porch sitting and a message that came through under the late-night cover of blackness. She remembers a long drawn-out conversation that felt like minutes because time flies like three blinks of an eye when you thoroughly enjoy the company. She remembers lightning strikes and boys playing hide-and-seek and a little girl’s pink toenails and music pounding out a steady background noise to fill what was otherwise a lonely July evening.
Pound.
Pound.
Pound.
She remembers pajama shorts and white tank tops and rain falling in parallel lines, unrelenting in its mission to soak the earth and the old blue chair underneath her. She remembers cats on pavement and walking down the road and turning back around because thunder rumbled and rain came harder and wet hair is ugly hair, especially after midnight. She remembers one lone star that shone from the top of the world, a place where eyes could meet and light up the darkened landscape the way eyes and stars often do when they collide unexpectedly. How does a star manage to shine in a thunderstorm? She didn’t know, but it did.
Shine.
Shine.
Shine.
She remembers sipping wine and switching to a more comfortable chair and entertaining the idea of watching movies, but movies are surface and talking is a much better way to pass the time. She remembers a lightning strike that made her scream real loud and then laugh at her own ridiculousness when a light came on from the neighbor’s house next door. She remembers boys asking for food and popping popcorn after bedtime and heading back outside to that comfortable chair to see if anything had changed. Everything had changed, but turned out change wasn’t such a bad thing.
Change.
Change.
Change.
She remembers nervousness and apprehension, but also a sense of trust because trusting people was hard for her but this time it seemed surprisingly easy. She remembers feeling heard, feeling known, and being accepted despite the words she’d spilled. It’s easy to spill words at 1am because no one is awake to listen except the ones who matter most, and the ones who matter most don’t care if the words aren’t pretty. She wasn’t pretty either. Her hair was starting to bend.
Bend.
Bend.
Bend.
She remembers laughter in a world that had been streaked with sorrow for a while, followed by back and forth jokes and wondering if the neighbors would scold her for disturbing the peace. Their light was off once again, so she thought she was safe. She remembers lying in the grass to let the rain soak her through, then crawling into bed where she didn’t move at all until morning. She remembers smiling through the morning window shades, leaving that chair exactly where she’d left it, even though it was turned backwards and crooked and remained that way for the next two weeks.
Crooked.
Crooked.
Crooked.
She remembers this. She dreams of this. She sometimes walks in the rain by herself to replay it. She’ll revisit it for the rest of her life, because rewinding back to the beginning and wondering if she could refashion a new ending is what dreamers do best.
She’s a dreamer.
I’m a dreamer.
It’s one of the many things we have in common.
Dreamers through and through.
Do you remember?
Because she remembers.
She remembers all of it.
Maybe someday she’ll make it all the way down the road.
