I remember you, March. I know full well what you are and remember what you feel like better than what the coffee I had this afternoon tasted like.
Odd how some memories, instead of fading with years passing, become clearer and more vivid, as if to keep those red connecting threads intact just to spite time and geography. The ones that mattered, that brought meaning and instigated growth. The ones that deserve to be remembered.
The cigarette smoke in that dark bar that no longer exists, the annoying sweetness of the Pepsi light (not Coca Cola; they never had Coca Cola there, but I was stubborn in trying my luck every time), the uncomfortable tree stumps posing as chairs. ‘Come on, man. I know your back hurts ’cause of these chairs, I don’t mind trading places with you.’. Complicit smile follows. I must be imagining things, I’d almost think I’m drunk if I didn’t know I’d been sticking to Pepsi since we got there.
The unusually cold March 31st afternoon and the frozen ground at 7 AM that April 1st. The small kitchen and not enough chairs for everybody at the birthday gathering. My checkered dress. A few seconds of disbelief and my nervous smile at seeing that pair of dark eyes again. Complicit smile follows – my friends know me better than I know myself. The taste of cheap wine and the hours slipping into early morning light. Human bodies slowly gravitating towards one another, doing nothing but abiding by the laws of physics governing heavenly bodies alike. And the penguins! I’ll never forget those damn penguins.
Oh yes, March! You can be exquisite and wild, playful yet serious and convincing in your intent. I remember you better than my very own month of May. You’ve been sweeter to me, more forgiving of youth’s idealism and relentless hopes, more trusting of my affections for you. I remember you very well.