Superlative moment
by jess shimer
Superlative Moment We had driven north, on a whim. It was autumn, the leaves: red orange brown noisy underfoot. The air, cool and clear. We had stopped in some artisan town, to take pictures. You were on your back, in the leaves, laughing: your eyes crinkled, mouth wide open, all teeth tongue cheekbones winter beard. No-- You walked into the ocean, fully clothed. How your hair had flattened, momentarily—or Wait. We had almost died, and it was not November: the songbird led us home. You fell, waist-deep, into the stagnant marsh west of Hutchinson’s farm. Beauty is in the imperfections, you had said. Love is not clean, so embrace the paradox. I remember the moment. You were everything a friend should be: superlative. |