I remember the little things.
Like how her fingernails matched
the color as her flip-flops.
The cautious giggles and the
dead bird we found on the beach
while we were looking for sea shells.
The day was as perfect as memory allows.
Reading Neruda's Sea and Bells to each other.
Both wishing we could be there in Isla Negra
with him as he wrote. Or to comfort him in
Santiago during his cancerous death as the
world he struggled so hard to create crumbled
under Pinochet's heartless rule.
The day was almost like today.
Where the air is so clear you
can see mountain ranges
hundreds of miles away.
And these memories like cataracts
breaking over me keeping me from
seeing you the way you are.
The way things were.
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