her and garages and maple leaves and sweaters and coats and buttons and shoes and dates to that italian place. hand holding and birds nesting and ponds growing and then shrinking. grocery stores and old boots and windowsills and paint buckets. ice on the tip of your nose and the constant overwhelming heat of your being and bands of freckles and a surprise tattoo. sunsets and summer camps and sleeping bags. listening to my favorite song as i walk across campus in white light and strutting a little. aquariums and sailboats and eddying currents and blue crabs and claw pops and beach chairs and hot dogs. babysitters and soccer games and snowcones and county fairs. words and wings and good books and poetry and magnets and old posters. keys hung up on a wall and a dish for coins and talking about politics and energy and people and colors and health scares. warm chapstick and teacups and zipping up dresses. sand in the sheets and flip flops and acorns and yardwork. weird euro-trips and train rides and bus coins and cafes on rivers and knowing the bartender. the idea of stars and gravity and cosmic evolution and Darwin’s evolution and the smallness of us and the bigness of our dreams and again, the smallness of us and and the bigness of time. sunscreen and backpacks and stacks of papers and dustpans. rainstorms and puddles and fitting under one umbrella. kissing and baking and writing and smiling and meeting parents and brothers. riverbeds and going to the ballet and ice cream cones and a few drinks too many. lisping voices and one wandering eye. tights and bathrooms and baths and bathwater. goosebumps and old shoes and dust floating past bright windows. making sandwiches and bicycle riding and waterpark swimming and bottled sodas and movie theaters and park benches. sometimes getting tired of each other but always missing you after just a few thinks and finding new freckles and hands under sheets and cold march mornings. the perfect stillness of waking up next to you. all is quiet in our house.