Sometimes a memory surfaces so clearly I can smell it. I wrote this to pin down one of those nights before it faded completely.

Friday night,
high school dance.
The dark gymnasium.
Alive with possibility
that included none of us.
Feeling as foolish and wordless as mood rings.
Music bouncing off the gym walls.
Warped records on high.
No one dancing.
Standing around.
Or slouching on benches.
Awkward,
hating that we wanted to be there.

Ten o’clock,
shrugging our coats on,
huddling by the chain link fence.
Smoking a joint.
Laughing.
Saying, “Let’s get out of here.”
Racing,
tripping,
calling,
falling down the street from the school.

Pulling open the glass door of The Garden Gate Restaurant,
better known as The Goof.
Yellow lighting,
smelling the fry,
the clink of glasses and chatter.
Piling into a booth.
Our waiter, Kenny, wiping the yellow table with his wet towel.
“Sue’s sister,” he’d nod at me.
My only identity.
French fries and gravy,
cokes all around.
Giggling,
flipping through the songs in the tiny jukebox at the end of the table.
Feeding it a quarter.
Doobie Brothers.
A fish tank bubbling,
green,
a sunken treasure chest,
the odd fish swimming by
like it belonged.

I wrote this in the early morning quiet, trying to catch something true before it slipped away. If this one landed for you, a tip in the jar tells me to keep going.

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