Flashes

Memory is a curious thing.

Of all the days and nights we live in our lives, how does our heart choose which ones stay, and which are washed over?

Why can I remember the most random day of second grade in it's entirety, but the first time I fell in love, my first kiss, and the births of my children are only flashes? Images zipping by like the countryside from the window of a train.

You and I are like that for me.

There are whole conversations about nothing that I can recite word for word, 

And there is also Big Bear in the Spring with the last of the snow clinging to the ground, walking to dinner, wind in my face, your arm around my neck, laughing into the night and headlights of oncoming cars.

There is Sedona in the fall getting lost on the grounds of our hotel, stopping to look up at the sky as the clouds suddenly parted, asking what you were thinking and I remember exactly what you said.

There is a morning - some dateless, unknown morning - we sat on your back porch and had breakfast and you said it was such a nice day, right before you kissed me.

Our love is like that.

Flashes of images, pieces of moments, that together make up the most intense, complicated, beautiful years of my life, that before I knew it had passed like that countryside I was watching from the train window: just as soon as it had come into focus, it vanished.