do you remember this photograph? i took it the night we drove down to louisville with our cameras, digging up memories and fashioning new ones. i don't know which street this is, and i couldn't begin to tell you which buildings are lining the edges, but i remember every inch of being there.

the weather has become important in my recollection of you, that night, that week; although it angered me at the time because the endless rain meant it was unseasonably warm, when i so desperately wanted winter with you. now i can't picture your face silhouetted against the drivers side window without seeing rain streaking down the glass behind.

remember when it rained? we went out to eat (was i still so nervous?) and i commented that it never rains like that at home.

remember when it rained? we ducked between the drops and skirted puddles, and i sat too close to you, looking through nameless, faceless magazines while t got his hair cut.

remember when it rained? we watched the water rise, flood, and you insisted that the phrase "god willin and the creek don't rise" must have originated in your daddy's backyard.

among the many things i see and hear and feel and know in this photograph, it is important the streets are shiny and wet.