|Convertible Night Sky (Memory)|
I’m wearing silk and denim, freshly showered, platform wedge shoes, camera in my lap. My husband smells like summer, sports a happy Tommy Bahama shirt and a baseball cap, and guides the car smoothly home. It’s date night and we are high on Chris Smither, laughter and possibility. Gliding through the cool summer air, with the heater on and the top down, we hold hands. I laugh at something he says, and look up. Street lights make garish gremlins of the trees, but do not fade the stars. Silky summer color threatening to slide out of sight, out of mind, no time to frame the image in the viewfinder, one-handed, I shoot from the hip.
I see stars.
I always see stars with you.