California Stars

It is always so tough to return to the real world after a vacation, especially the first vacation Tara and I have had together since our honeymoon almost four years ago. To make the transition easier, we had steak and champagne last night, but the true test was heading into work today.

After a quiet morning with coffee and a crossword, I got in my car and set off, and the first song that my iPod shuffled out just happened to be this one, which has become “ours.” And suddenly, even though my love was still snug in bed, the day became ours as well.

Will you be my Valentine?

I’ve known you for so long now, I feel you imprinting on my memories. You’re in the bushes on the Easter I had chicken pocks and couldn’t search for eggs. You’re guiltily giggling at me as I am the only little kid putting in fake teeth to eat dinner. You’re grimacing with me as I do my physical therapy, my tiny legs shaking with pain, in the living room of my childhood home.

And I find myself in your stories, rooting for you as you escape from a menacing goat. I’m behind a telephone pole the day you sprained your ankle on a trampoline. I’m blending into the landscape when you’re sulking around Grand Canyon, too mad about not getting candy to care about the massive chasm in the ground beside you.

These memories converge and overlap, like double exposures kept for humor’s sake. They see a future lifetime shared and buckle from exclusion. They refuse separation. They hug close together and bleed through, superimposing and impressing on each other until the mingling is complete and irreversible.

I’m there the night we met, looking over my own shoulder at you, seeing all the things I don’t remember and finding details I’d hate to forget. At that moment I love you doubly, as I do today, as I will forever.