memory

There was this tiny moment in time, once, when I felt truly carefree.  Let's get this straight: if you were going to pick ten words to describe me, "carefree" would not be one of them.  But there I was.

It was late, still bright from the summer sunset.  We could hear the swans quietly trumpeting to each other.  I was a little tipsy, without a drop to drink.  Watching Iago had been an intoxicating experience.  We had to cross the bridge, to what was then an unfamiliar place.  Even in sotto voce, giggles bounced off the church walls.  I tripped.  You caught my elbow so I didn't fall and I think you laughed.  You never laugh.  I lamented that you didn't see the play, that you would have fallen in love too.  I remember the river and the swans.  I remember the dip in the sidewalk and the warm arm I held so tight.  I remember thinking it was the perfect evening for magic and tragedy.  I felt free and young and happy.  So tenuous, it dissipated in the porch light. 

I think my memory is playing tricks on me.  Why did we cross the river when our beds were right next to the theatre?  Did we really walk by the cemetery?  Perhaps I'm remembering it all wrong, putting together a mosaic instead of recalling a picture.  We may have never held each other.  I was drunk after all and the details escape me.