When things stop being pretty I always try to remember this one particular day. I was sitting in the backseat of the car tracing the outline of the orange evening sky, lips pressed against the back of my knee. There was a certain song playing through my headphones and I struggle to remember what it was called or who it is by, but at that exact moment in time it made me feel infinite. It’s that way with most things in life though, isn’t it? Forgotten details, misplaced memories, but the feelings always stick around- resurfacing to let you know that they still call the inside of your skin their home. Anyways, I was in the backseat of the car, it was a road trip, just my parents and I. We were on our way to our cabin, logs stacked messily on top of each other in the middle of the woods. I was sitting there as the wheels spun beneath me, curiously gazing at the blurred trees as they flew by my window. I watched as my dad laced his weathered, tough fingers in between my mothers soft and gentle freckled hand. So meticulously, with ease and intricacy- pausing to run his thumb over his favorite scars and marks from living. Laughing with my moms smiling eyes, they held each others bones in the gentlest way possible. I just sat there, marveling at the way the sun was crowing my moms hair with its setting rays, stinging my eyes with its purity. Next thing I knew, my dad pulled out a single red rose from what seemed like no where, all of a sudden it was just right there in his hand. He set it in my moms lap and told her that she was his happy, his something exciting, his sanity and his crazy. Without a word spoken, she laid her head down on his shoulder, it seemed as though the sun was setting with us, for us, and it transitioned just above their two heads.
I sat there in silence, contentment, and I thought to myself- Someday I will be someone’s crazy, I’ll talk to them with the happy in my eyes and we will sew our fingers together so carefully that the world will never take away our exciting. We’ll laugh with the setting sun dancing in our hair and my freckles will shine the same, just like my mothers, while our skin drips in forevers.