A memory

The band played Scarlett Begonias as we sat in the tall grass sipping beers. Ringlets of sun and rainbow reflections danced around your tan body. I remember that your hair was soft, long and brown. We were just 20. I had eyes of a child but my heart felt old. We discussed the Grateful Dead experience and I described it as a sub-culture as I gazed at a sea of thousands dancing on the green grass. The crowd seemed to inhale the music like a drug and drink the bright sunlight like fresh squeezed orange juice. You looked at me and smiled, then placed your lips on mine to blow smoke in my mouth. Your hand rested gently on my cheek, and I knew you cared for me deeply then. Someone in a long flowing skirt and bells on her ankle stopped to tell us we were beautiful together. Her patchouli reminded me of skipping stones with you at the end of a pier when we went camping once. The day was long and hazy and we danced and laughed for hours. Then there was the long kiss goodbye as we leaned on the hood of your chevy. That was the end of our road together and that's how I prefer to remember you.