if this were 03 and we were sixteen

if this were 03 and we were sixteen, i would look with anticipation to july and august. those balmy months spent without worry or school or stress or timelines. i would propose that we hop in the back of that old pickup with a box of chinese food and galllon of sweet tea. drive deep into the back fields where the wheat is knee high.

i would say, let's just drive. to your mama's or mine. to the gas station for slushies. to the golf course where you can break your third fishing rod in the weeds and tangles of the grown-up pond. i would sleep late and wake up with my hand still on the phone where we hung up only hours before.

if this were 03 and we were sixteen, i would look at you. you with your floppy hair and crooked smile. your ambition and wit. i would breathe you in and capture for good the feel of the fraying cloth seats in your volkswagon van. remember, i would tell myself. remember when the sun was setting and he was resting against the car beside you, his legs over yours, leaning back sipping on limeade.

i would bottle those times, because they were special and sacred and seasonal.

but this is twenty twelve and we are in another summer. we are older and different, but if it's possible, more in love. your hands are stronger from years of turning wrenches and tightening bolts. my hair is longer and i've noticed my knees are popping more than usual and it takes longer to stretch to touch my toes.

we've grown, you and i. oh, 03 was magnificant. it was the year of not too much, except that our little lives intersected and were forever changed. and they are still changing. ebbing and flowing and waning and growing.

even if the most romantic thing i can do for you sometimes, like last night when everything just felt like Too Much, is just bring you water in bed. know i do it with as much romance and ardor as when i leaned against you that night in the pickup and told you, "i get you." or that time at the alter i said, "i do."

i still get you, my dear. and i still do.