just before all of this really got started, you used to defend me to others, against everything you believed for yourself.

"i know a girl," you told them, even as i struggled against a strong current that swept you and the rest of the world in the opposite direction, "who likes him, who is voting for him. i respect her opinion. this is what she believes."

but it was never "my girl" or "i love her," because no no no. something, i more than like you, something. but only in the quiet ends of long letters.

i sat in your daddy's kitchen, eating cheese and fried chicken while you crunched potato chips on your sandwich, and somewhere in between his soft blue eyes and the flooding muddy brown outside i saw where i wanted to be.

we just couldn't get there, so distracted we were by the possibility of actually being there. no farther than you tapping on the glass of the passenger window and curling your face into a mock frown to make me smile [they always said i wasn't pretty unless i smiled] until i laughed, while your daddy jumped out the truck and tried to fix things. i tugged my warm hat down hard on my head and knew that we couldn't get there.

and then your daddy's wife came home, and he gave up, surrendered his existence, and after that it was much too long before we got back in the car to breathe.

somedays, like today, i wonder if you remember what i believed and how we almost thought we could believe on our own together.