memory

Her, coming down the escalator in a green t-shirt that urged us not to pick the flowers, beaming a sweetly awkward smile.

I’m not sure what the color of her purse was, or how dark her jeans were, or whether she was really wearing a belt. I mostly remember how it felt, to stand there at the bottom, waiting for her to come down. The same lines from Shakespeare flashing through my mind as they always do when looking up at someone from far below.

She didn’t hurry the journey; just stood there, letting the escalator do its job. Maybe I’m imagining that– the law of relativity according to Mark Twain makes it entirely possible that, in reality, I actually didn’t spend an eternity watching her descent.

Maybe what I’m remembering as “forever” was that moment when my eyes found hers, and there was joy.