come to me, please, all these years fall through

with a single e-mail yesterday, i'm 17 again. a know-it-all with no life experience and more aquaintances than friends. with a single phone call, i'm sitting in front of a beautiful, plain oak box scribbled with ruminations on moments lost. i can't see what's inside, but i've heard. i'm surprised there's anything left to put inside. it's covered with my contribution - purple iris flowers and yellow roses. it's not much, but all i can do. i don't remember when this conversation happened, but i know the irises are hers and the roses mine. i no longer remember the exact moment i saw her last, only when i knew i'd never see her again. i kept journals when i was around that age. those pages are stapled together, never to be opened again.

a few months before, we were visiting my friend chuck in little rock. a 16 and 17 year old on a road trip to little rock - windows down and music blaring. probably speeding and driving carelessly, but who doesn't then? we were introduced to his sister that day - elizabeth, but call me babs. driving back that afternoon, we were recalling on how many elizabeths we knew and beths and lizzys, and that's when she said, 'i think i want people to call me liz.'

drink to me, babe, then . a.c. newman


Anonymous Anonymous said...

I haven't thought about that box in years. I carved my name in it. About three years ago I decided I regretted it. I don't know why. I guess I don't really know how I feel about all this just randomly coming back. But it's been a while since I've cared about anything... I guess this is just better than anything new and temporary.

10:59 PM  

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