We climbed to the top of Strawberry Hill with a picnic basket in tow, and ate cucumber sandwiches in the August sunshine. We lay around and spoke of the things we’d never done, and the things we wished we’d never done, and the things we were certain we’d never do. When he spoke I only half listened; I studied the way his mouth moved when he talked, the way his dark hair sun-streaked with caramel fell into his eyes, the subtle 5 o’clock shadow that lined his jaw. When he sighed the air tickled the hair on my face and I could almost taste the sunshine on his breath. Love arrived today, and like an old friend, I welcomed it with open arms and a fervent heart.
If I live to be a hundred years old, I want to always remember today.
I peeled us an apple and nicked my finger on the blade. He kissed the wound and said it might scar. I said I wouldn’t mind if it did; I’d always have a reminder of today. He tilted his head and when he smiled I smiled, but my smile stretched further, down to my toes and beyond, like roots of a tree, binding me to this spot. Forever.
We watched the sun go down on top of the hill, and he slipped the blanket around my shoulders, squeezing me closer. I breathed in all of him and he smelled of cigarettes and mint and old books and coffee, and I thought, this – this – is what it’s all about. I get it, now. I get it.
If I live to be a hundred years old, I want to always remember today.
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