following the feel of the fire

Most beautiful memories in my life aren't mine. A seventeenth surprise birthday party thrown for a friend, that sense of purpose? Seventeen years old myself, in the hatch-up roof-back suburban lurching excuse of a car. Before me, behind me, clearly remembered separately except for the charge of wind an inevitable force of localized anti-inertia. How her camera shattered the second we touched the tarmac. As if to say, I'm not done with you yet. Still, the air tasted a different way that night than it has since: transparent.