Love

That first night: the laughter, the music, the love

The first date: the music, the poetry, the moon

The road trip through a hurricane, my yoga pants ruined by rain, the Violent Femmes, and that morning at the Hirshorn, the Rodin

The first Thanksgiving in the snow, before Chicago and all of the ugliness that still can’t steal our laughter

The first year, the barbecue shacks and swimming holes, that glorious roadside stand surrounded by zinnias with homemade fresh strawberry soft serve, a heaven I didn’t know existed.

Baltimore

The Bed and Breakfast Inns, especially the Conception Room in Plains, Georgia

Velvet Revolver at Bayfest, Scott Weiland dangling from the scaffolding with a microphone

The fight on the beach in Destin

The centerpiece I sent to Thanksgiving when we were asked not to attend. I sat in the middle of the table.

The bluegrass festivals, the camping trips, the biker funeral procession down 17 in Charleston

Bob Dylan

Long, slow, smoldering looks that melt the marrow of my memory

The seizure when I had to sprint across the bed to tackle you away from the picture window, the forever until the ambulance arrived, you unconscious and me on the phone with your brother. Thinking I might lose you, the long night in the ER and the spinal tap, the stiff conversation with your sister the next day when I wouldn’t disturb your rest. By law, my sister.

The ice storm that brought down the Eisenhower Pine, the National and our neighborhood sounding like a war zone, the oak uprooted in Kelly’s parents’ yard, taller than the house, and the earthquake days later, when we were at Courtney’s, with power.

All of the time on blankets by rivers, tending fires at home, driving up mountains

The drive to Tennessee.

Haunted hotels, sacred woods and a basilica, Christmastown and Belmont, Spencer Mountain

a river of our own, The Cure and The Vindys, and that weekend in Boone

My meander down memory lane, you steady on the paved road beside me

The freedom I’ve found in your love