Without reason

A tear wells. I mentally swallow it before it wets my cheek. I know it’s good to cry, but I feel I must write. There is no reason I’m sad—it just is, as most things are. In the interim of my reasonable, yet reasonless sadness, a memory glazed my mind. A convergence of uneventful moments that are strangely important.

The warmth

The drive past the palm tree–lined median entering Palatka. A scene that mirrored a 1930s Hollywood boulevard, as so much of underdeveloped Florida does. The stretch leading up to it—farmland, family owned. The city limits—cracker houses littered with grandbaby bikes, rusted car parts, green overgrowth in the yard, and the occasional panting dog and tenant swatting flies on the porch.

Decisions stake chance

I remember being so attuned to my indecisiveness, how the space of possibility and vacancy of probability crippled me. He didn’t have that problem. I envied him for it, but was glad he had something to teach, and I, something to learn.

Pile burn

Where were we to go that day in Palatka? The thrifts were getting old and the one bookstore in town was always closed. So, we drove aimlessly, which bothered me—the not knowing where, the gas burning on by.

Without direction

He thought of it as “adventure.” “We’ll just drive until we find something.” His detachment to how the day would go wound up a blessing—made clear by the “Ravine Gardens State Park Ahead” sign to my right.

All the while, pleasing

He said “see,” and I smiled and praised him for his ability to see without foresight. I put on my sunglasses to hide how stoned I was then fixed my hair in the truck’s side mirror, because how he saw me mattered—more than he knew. As we walked down to the Ravines, I clutched him because I was high and strangers knew that.

Like nothing

We walked and talked very little, as usual—but never of my choice. We passed a wedding rehearsal and the idea that we should get married here seemed nice—so much that I said it aloud. He agreed, but not with the fervor I had hoped for. He saw twenty-four hours in a day; so no future thought pierced the veil or envisioned me behind one.

And yet

We walked. He videoed me. My hair fell long past the cuts of my wings, stuck to the damp of my hot neck. By this point, my want to look beautiful grew more important than comfort.

And so

We took refuge on a table bench near a small watering hole. Different-colored beads spread over the wooden surface; left behind by a child I assumed. I photographed the contrast—the bright plastic against dampened wood. He submerged his buzzed head under the water, as he so often did. I rolled up my jeans and removed my shoes and socks. There we were, together, feeling the same temperature of water—his head, my toes—yet I didn’t feel a closeness.

Not sure why

We continued on, coasting the edge of a jungle-like canopy. I didn’t know what to say and he had nothing to add. I felt contained, like water in a coconut.

A tear has yet to fall

Writing makes it known: there is no romance to this memory. Each word, a bright bead against dark grain.