Sometimes, I swear I should be going through this life with my fingertips stretched outward at all times.
I want every brilliant moment to leave its mark on me so I don’t forget—
so that the memory of each moment’s sparkle never dulls or disappears into the annals of the everyday;
so that it’s never tumbled smooth until it’s indistinguishable from the unremarkable.
I want to remember the icy kiss of our air-conditioned living room & the unwinding of propped-up, walk-weary feet; the gentle hum of an Emerson in my arms, the sun’s first brown-sugar dusting of the summer on my skin, and the bliss of that feeling of home.
I want to close my eyes and immediately see the hammock swinging lazily between the trees above our green, green grass that all at once shot out of the ground and became immediately too long.
To see the pink petals in the window box snuggling with the screen on one side and stretching over the white-painted wooden box on the other.
To hear the occasional creaks as the wind dances with the backyard clothes line, and the lavender-scented snap that rings out when I shake fresh-from-the-washer-wet clothes before pinning them up.
I want to hold tight to the reckless joy of a Friday-night dance floor where his arm is around my waist and I’m laughing—laughing so hard I can barely stay upright—because we’re dancing to You Shook Me All Night Long, complete with air guitar & gratuitous head banging
to the bar stools we perch on later, him singing Don’t Stop Believing in falsetto, both of us buzzing on a combination of White Russians and the night-washed summer air coming in from the patio;
& then it’s to the dance floor, again, where he’s got everyone doing a dance move he’s made up (“churn the butter”), and I swear to you, I’d marry him right there and then if I hadn’t already.
I want to keep close the view of the enormous crowd packing the sidewalks when I walked in the Denver Pride parade with my big-city brother;
the way it was “come as you are” at its finest, waving drag queens and stilettos before noon and all;
the feeling of waving and shouting, “Happy Pride!” and hearing an entire block roar and wave and cheer it back at you.
I want to imprint on my memory bank the feeling of finally hitting my stride with dance choreography for Melodrama;
that moment when all the nights of marking the steps, working & re-working, stopping and starting over, dancing in the living room… they all catch up to each other and create a series of seconds where everything all comes together and works.
I giddily love that I’m learning choreography & crashing around in character heels in the same lobby where I had my first dance as a wife; I wholly adore that, in less than a month, I get to swish around in a can-can skirt and kick up my heels for a crowd on the same stage where I got married.
I never want to be without moments like these within an instant recall’s reach:
& I never, ever want to lose the delicious sense of gratitude that accompanies these moments—
an inner thank you note to every little dazzling thing.