Moments on an Island

We crossed the street barefoot and slipped our feet into the cold water of the stream. Wading ankle deep, our feet slipped against the round mossy stones that seemed to move like the slimy backs of turtles underwater. We spread our picnic blanket on the soggy grass of the tiny island where the water rushed in loud, white rivulets before us and behind us. We sat eating crackers and hummus, drinking Bailey's straight from the bottle, and listening to nothing but the rush of the water in our ears.

It might not seem like much--just another moment to drop in the growing storehouse of my memories of you.

We'll eventually forget the sticky skin from a hot, humid summer day, two dozen insect bites on our legs, and our silent argument about nothing at all. These details will fade away, and I'll eventually remember only you, and the island--our island for a night--and a forked stream, and a little dog, and the sweet daze of the Irish liqueur, and the softly closed faces of day lilies, and the feel of your fingers in my hair, and the tiny lap of jumping minnows, and the sudden flare of summer heat-lightning, and the silhouette of my favorite white tree against the midnight sky.

Another moment in a series of moments, perhaps, which make up life, but some moments have significance attached to them. I will file this one beside "folding paper flowers by candlelight" under "M" for "Moments to Remember" or maybe "P" for "People to Remember."

Or maybe I'll leave these moments lying on my desk for a while. I want to remember.