2013.
The years go by so quickly. And time seems ever more
fleeting in its progression. The flipping of a glossy, crisp calendar page to January never ceases takes us by
surprise. We are in awe at how much has changed in a mere twelve months. The
new year has everyone reminiscing, pondering, examining.
I am no exception. I’m not one to make big resolutions. I’m
more the type to drive home with a broken heater on a frigid Colorado night,
listening to Passenger and replaying the moments of the past year that stand
out in my mind. I allow myself to sink into both the nostalgia and the surges
of pain in reliving the many moments. Some of which have changed me, and some
of which I will embrace solely for their charm, the warmth they bring. It’s one a.m. and I wonder why my favorite
music is always music that makes me cry.
I rejoice in the present, the refreshing hope of a new year,
a new shot at being whatever I want to be. And in the same moment I am flooded
by the good and bad of these memories. I allow myself to go further. Two years,
three years, even four. I’ve made no promises to myself this year, and I am
content in living in my memories, at least for this short drive home. They are
movie frames that will never leave me.
There are some moments that occur in the present that you
immediately know you will never forget. It is instantly and undoubtedly
captured. And then there are moments that take you by surprise; seemingly
insignificant moments that make themselves vivid to you when you least expect it. You’re reflecting on the past
year of your life, watching the clouds of your breath rise in a car, and then without warning, you are standing in a familiar
place, watching in slow motion as a boy turns his face toward you in the
sunlight and you count every color in his eyes and recall the exact way his
hair shrouds his ears, barely kisses his cheekbones. Or you are overwhelmed by the coolness of saltwater licking at your feet, feel the sinking of every toe into
the moist and compact sand at the same time your ears welcome the ringing laugh of a girl
you tell all your secrets to.
I remember the hottest days and the longest drives.
I memorize the way the sun sinks behind a boy’s head,
transforming his dark hair to gold.
I hold onto the sweet clandestineness of opening a back gate
to get to a garage.
I try to remember every scar on my body.
I remember photographs and sunglasses in the back of a van
with my best friends.
I trace the outline of a man in a pickup truck, silhouette
bold against the soft glow of my taillights in the rear view mirror.
I remember the cracking of glow sticks underwater on a pure,
summer night.
I can’t forget the shuddering of shoulders and the tears that fell on my driveway.
I remember pizza and punk music and cold nights under
downtown city lights.
I cry.
I smile, too. I smile a lot.
And sometimes I do both at the same time.
