Last week, I dined with D. at a side-street cafe with pink and white flowers raining down onto the pavement. We sipped our beers and talked in the way I do with my siblings whenever I get to be alone with them--deep and drifting thoughts. A fluid exchange of ideas...We walked blocks of his chosen hometown in Philadelphia and I felt myself caught up in some Walt Whitman-esque dream where "the press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections" (Song of Myself). Whitman died in Camden, after all, just a breath away from where I stood.
In my most vivid memories with D.--it is Summer, always Summer. Spent by any body of water we could reach by car...or the neighborhood pool, the nearby creeks, the spit of a stream in the woods we believed then really was a river.