She chose Van Morrison. And a memory of you pops like a tiny iridescent bubble. I see you, smiling, that Mennonite rebel farm boy who swept me off the dusty streets of our small prairie town and into the front seat of his souped-up ’67 Dart Swinger. Oh, I loved you. Loved your wild hair, your cupid-bow smile, your dusty, brown shoes with the platform heels.
You were trying so hard to break free, be different, but your plaid shirt and dirty jeans your sad eyes and the weekends spent at home on the farm: you knew. We both did.
At 15 I thought I was a woman, At 19 you thought you knew what it was to be mature. To be a man. Oh, I smile at that. But never laugh, no, never laugh.
I heard, years ago, that you made a life for yourself on the farm. Beautiful Mennonite bride beautiful Mennonite children to carry on the legacy you thought you could deny. As sad as that makes me, I’m happy for you.
But, today when I heard that familiar, raspy voice, the one that you introduced me to, I couldn’t help but wonder how you are and if your heart remembers.