Today, she is a little older… though not as old as she probably feels. Memories return with more resistance, and the moments she never considered important are the clearest in her mind. There is a snapshot of a cold rustic linoleum floor and the memory of staring at the black scuff on the woman’s shoes ahead of her.
There is another snapshot of a still lake and two white egrets scooping the mirror of the water while he was touching her hair. Another is of his ear–and the two small holes orphaned of earrings–and the microscopic freckle on his neck as he slept with his back to her while his saxophone slept in the crook of her bent body.
One snapshot is of the sun setting on the backs of rubber-skinned surfers as he squeezed her hand and put his sunglasses on her; she was squinting, looking into the sun – she has a bad habit of doing that. But it’s just a photo album in her head. Those other moments that she thought were so important–the ones she forced herself to remember because they were so touching, so tender and beautiful.
As she ponders them, they come to her in pieces… but one minute turns into thirty… and she has to write them down, have to draw the faces and the places otherwise she will lose it and have to start all over again.
She stretches her legs and scratches the skin of her shins, watching the familiar white highways forming from under her nails. “What does it matter if the past is watching me? I’m still moving forward… still moving… falling forward into a greater flux of events unfolding before me. What does it matter, after all, if I change? Change is the only demand of every life, the universal rule. So what does it matter to me or to anyone else if we all change our skin, clothes, dreams and fantasies as spring matures into fall?”
At that very moment, he walks up from behind and rubs her shoulders. Time to put on that coat, he said. “That coat you’ve been wanting to wear since forever”.