It happens. You open your windows and watch the fine mist of deja vue settle on the landscape. Have I really aged long enough for life to repeat itself or are we just paying for our sins? Being casually haunted by everyday reminders that at one time, we too, were wreckless and free?
These are the things I remember, and sometimes miss. These are the things I sometimes still cling to, tucked in a dusty drawer, crammed in a crowded closet. A pair of jeans, an airbrushed T-shirt, a notebook full of poems, pictures of the past. These are the things that once in a while, in a laughing mob of kids, I see again....And wonder, when did we become vintage? When did we finally become cool?
Flip flops, the real ones. Little 49 cent rubber thongs of no style. Perfect with button up levi's in the Florida sun.
Platform shoes. Clunky, funky, fun.
Peasasnt blouses. Embroidered. Really. No bra.
Dancing on the coffee table.
Picture booths. Distorted faces. Sepia smiles.
The smell of a patchwork leather purse. The keeper of all secrets.
Lip gloss. No color. Just the hint that I want your attention.
The perfect tan. Before the warnings, the scares, the perfect sunscreen. The kind only found on a string bikini clad drooling sun goddess sleeping in the sand.
Chicken and dumplings. From scratch.
Forever blonde. The color of the sun. The color of the sand. The color of the dunes. The color of our childhood.
Poems. Ranting, raving love poems.
Laughter. The spontaneous unacceptable laughter that is born in the morbid silence of a funeral or etheral magic of matrimony. The uncontrollable, vibrate my body, laughter that spreads like a virus without a cure, and runs down your cheeks in taunting tears.
Dancing in the kitchen.
Ham and cheese flavoured Flings.
Big, really Big, sunglasses. "Whose behind those Foster Grant's?"
Vans. Not mini vans. Not tennis shoes. Vans. Hippie Vans.
Peace Creek. You had to be there.
It wasn't any better. It wasn't glorious or anything. I just didn't know then what I know now. And it was easier.