The Early December

I remember the place that we went in the Early December. The trees painted the sky a soft crimson red. The world was dark, but the fire-orange sun still lit the far reaches of the Denver Mountains. I remember the chilly breeze that went right through my winter jacket and dried my moistened lips. The leaves beneath my feet were crusted with blueish frost. I took in everything around me. The smell of fall, the changing leaves, the sound of a creek somewhere nearby, the rustling of the tree branches in the Early December. I remember the old white cottage we rented that winter, the one with the faded blue walls, worn wood furniture, and blankets made from all sorts of clothes that kept us warm by the fire. I remember the people we met that year and the events that pulled us further apart. I remember more and more every day, but I know something is still missing, some empty spot that has yet to be filled. I dream of forgotten places and the boring repetition of my life.

I remember the splendid summer when I first started living. I remember the warm gold glossy sun reflected silver crests on the lake and made the creaking dock as the water lapped around it. I remember sitting on the rock, just watching the fishes cast rainbow sparkles in the mid-day sun. I remember lying in bed in our cabin, under the itchy yellow sheet and the soft blue foamish blanket with holes, my body still feeling like it rocked back and forth with the dock that could be heard in the distance. I remember the beating of your heart as I lay on your chest as we tried to count the stars. I remember shivering as the wind rustled, and you putting your arms around me to keep me warm as we lay on the dirty white beach chair that night. I remember still shivering after I had warmed and the strange echo of your voice as you told me you wished you could see the stars a bit closer. I remember all the photographs we took that summer we went to California, when you were in your black and white phase. I remember walking along the shore, the white seafoam mixing with the grey ocean and tan sand that licked our toes as you shoot another picture of me, gently holding out my hand to catch a sunray. I remember the rasberry cotton candy and the pigeons that stared at us as we ate kettle corn and the faded green benches we sat on that were across from some run-down park that looked old and forgotten, with only a paint-flecked see-saw and a merry-go-round that squeaked as the wind blew. I remember your laughter and random images from a memory I can't quite recall.