There we were at Strawberry Fields just settling into the peacefulness—trying to avoid loose hair from the dirty transient combing his mane, strands floating by in a light wind—when the tour group of Canadians arrived. For a while I was simply enjoying the sound of their lilting French--still avoiding the flying hair, yes, but also checking out fashion trends.
Then I saw the Canadian version of Amel*, young and smoking, with a really cool jacket, and gorgeous in that golden-tinged nostalgia of memory flooding back.
Murph said it was time to go and I didn’t want to. Yes, we had been there too long, and yes, the transient was weird and scary with the hair brushing…but I couldn’t leave. It was Amel all over again and I was back in time. Forget Joe, the ring on my finger. I was back to senior year, recounting in impassioned diary entries all the times he smiled at me. I was back to thinking all day about what I would say to him after school. I was back to daydreaming in Pre-Calc and telling my sister’s boyfriend to ask him if he liked me or not.
Who cares if that canadien wasn’t the real Amel and he was probably just-turned eighteen and didn’t seem to speak English and I was married. Who cares if, for one moment, you can go back? (…sigh…)
I made Murph inconspicuously take a picture and then we left.
*Name has been changed.