I remember love as it was when I was younger.

When my heart hadn’t known doubt because it had never been betrayed.

When it was the most automatic thing to assume that the love I felt for a man was equal to the love he felt for me, because we were together. And that assumption made me so confident, and I acted any way I wanted to and didn’t feel insecure about the other girls.

And I took his compliments as they came and believed all of them without reservation, and I thought, I was all that.

And I took it for granted that we had a future together, that our future was with each other.

There was no middle ground and we belonged to each other completely: I to him, because he was my first, and he to me, because I was his last.


Reality caught up on me and for years I believed I was living in the wrong version of the universe, and everybody ended up with all the wrong people.


And then doubt came.  And insecurity.  And jadedness.  And caution.

Many more things followed: envy, regret, blame. So many feelings became inadequate.

And finally love turned into work.


And I emerged as the inexorable by-product. A woman.

But I remember love as it was.


I don’t understand my heart sometimes.

I’m thinking of you, and for the first time I’m not in a hurry to be somewhere else or someone else and I wonder what it means.


On the day I met you, I stayed awake for twenty-four hours, invigilating the earth, that it might yet bring forth another miracle and I did not want it to happen without me watching.

On the second day, I slept, and dreamed of you.

On the third day, a saxophone solo started playing in my head.

And when we spoke, I wept.


Tomorrow is another day, and

I can’t wait.


If I didn’t remember, I’d think there was something wrong with it.

But because I do remember, I’m starting to think that maybe this is how it should have always been.


This may not last forever.

But I’m leaving these words behind today so that I can remember.