Yesterday

At the tip top of a winding canyon, outside a cabin with very narrow stairs and a wraparound porch, we sat alongside a fire pit watching the coals turn from orange to white to black. Abbey Road tracks spun round and round next to the player piano.

Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it's all right
It's all right

He made me tell the story about the time I had to climb a tree on a blind date. I wanted him to tell me about the room with the yellow wallpaper, his sister's secret pizza dough recipe, and life in the city with bridges. I wanted to know if he has a favorite. I wanted to ask him if he remembered the time he ordered me sugar free lemonade and then let me eat his sweet potato fries. I wanted to tell him that the gate down the road looked perfect for swinging our legs over. That we could hear the river from there and see the big dipper between the pine trees.

But the coals were turning colors, slowly fading out like a dying sun. Cold air was floating in from the forest behind us and I had to go home and learn about instantaneous velocity. So we drove down the hill to the gate, opened the windows to hear the river, and headed home. The faint smell of campfire trailed us like a shadow.