Remembering Now

I'm crossing the rocks where we once tried to make our way, once took long awkward steps to avoid towels and legs and Bud-on-ice.

And i tried to imagine when it was Then: my bare skin, arms out falling forward, staring at the bottom of the moody water; remembering months ago when only the falling snow dove in, and the gray and white geese, squawking, had all flown over head, pointing their Vs toward Connecticut, maybe, or did they go as far as Florida? Farther?

And I tried to remember back to Before Then and I can't remember what the slippery algae felt like under my feet, scrambling to get back up to the rock, making fungus jokes just to hear you laugh ("I would lichen this to a great day!").

And bundled up in a black hoodie Now, hair welcomingy touching my neck, I barely remember the smell of or skin all together, as we sat out on the lawn. Our skin was perpetually sticky with sweat and bug spray; tempted sometimes by that gruesome DEET to avoid scratching at our ankles in the sleepless night when the mosquitoes rested their round, red bellies.

And Now i can't imagine anything but Now: the quiet of the lake, void of its boats like a face without blemishes and I'm held to the present by the sloshing of the soft water onto the rocks and into every crevice.