Did I ever tell you how good you look in this picture?
Yeah, I know……..every day.
But, just in case you can’t read my mind, I’ll keep telling you.

And look at me.  I was so hurt - about what, for crying out loud?  Probably because you couldn’t stay over or something.  I should have been celebrating the fact that you were sitting next to me.

That was some party, though, huh?

 
Remember the crazy thrift store we found earlier that afternoon?  Some old lady owned it, out there in Edmond, remember?  It was like she had taken her house and made it into a store.  We were wandering from room to room, looking through her sad little racks of faded prints, bad ties, and scuffed shoes, while she ambitiously pinned price tags onto things that would never see daylight.
Then the phone rang, and she glued herself to the counter.
We continued into a back room, all the while comparing obnoxious Hawaiian shirts, and giggling over red golf pants and white shoes.  We were always so goofy together when we thought the world wasn’t watching.
The next thing I knew, you scurried up a tiny ladder into her attic, and waved me up.  We were young.  And it didn’t seem like trespassing or anything; there were no signs, right?

What a strange attic.  It was a long, surprisingly cool room, lit by a single, tiny window, and just tall enough to stand in.
Green carpet.  A large mirror.  And full of boxes and bags and books and racks and more polyester than a late 60’s Southern Baptist Camp Meeting.
I sat on a bowling ball and thumbed through a stack of True West magazines.
You found an old fur wrap and a black pillbox hat with netting, then handed me a 1940-ish tuxedo jacket with beautifully cut long tails.  It fit perfectly.
We were transformed.
And we began to dance.
A slow, dreamy dance in front of the mirror, and across the long attic room.
The kind of dance where promises are made, and no words are ever spoken.

Anything could have happened up in the attic, but what a gorgeous mood we were in.
The thought crossed my mind - how long is the old lady downstairs going to yap on that phone before she comes looking for us?  She must have been talking to God himself, because she had no idea that we were having a magical dance in that mysterious room above her head.
You didn’t seem concerned at all about whether there was anybody else on the planet.
So I let my thoughts drift away as well, and the light from the window absorbed us, and we disappeared into the mirror.

I have no memory of how we ended up downstairs at the cash register – but I bought the fancy tuxedo tails for twenty bucks, and you took the little black hat for five.
You’ve probably noticed I still pull the tails out every once in awhile for kicks.
Halloween.  Funky Christmas parties.
Maybe just a solo dance with your shadow in front of a mirror.

 
So many memories crowded into such a short period of our lives.

Do you remember the trip to Six Flags?  Flying down Interstate 35 in a 1973 “Top Banana” Yellow Dodge Challenger.
Standing in those long lines in the hot Texas sun.
I can still feel your head under my chin.  And your bare shoulders in the back seat of the log ride, glistening as we bobbed and drifted into the dark cave.
Kissing cotton-candy off your lips.
Playing in the fountain like children, and checking into the Holiday Inn as husband and wife.  That was your idea, by the way.  We may not have fooled anybody, but we weren’t trying to – we just wanted the connection.  Soon enough, we would have our separate identities again, and our separate closets and our separate refrigerators.  Soon enough, we would see our friends, and they would look at us the same as they always had.
But in Dallas, Texas we played “house” and we shared a name.  And we fell asleep as husband and wife.  But we were already dreaming.
Sunday morning, lying beside you – agreeing to let you drive my sacred car back to Oklahoma City so I could take a nap on the way.  The long weekend was catching up with me, and Lord, in four hours I would be working Section 2.
I knew you would get that speeding ticket.  I tried to warn you about the sweet Siren’s Song of the Mopar musclecars.
But you lived faster.

 
I remember a Corn Flakes box.
The Trouser Press.  A tie tac of the Colorado state flag.
I remember the look on your face as I walked off the plane in a bright satin cowboy shirt, complete with boots and that big ol’ hat.
I remember Roxanne, I Don’t Like Mondays, and the greatest song of all, Springsteen’s Jungleland.
A nurse’s uniform, a wrestling t-shirt, and a tiny rented house with white carpeted walls.
I even remember your mother’s desk at The Edmond Sun.

 
Every day, as I get older I am amazed how some things become clearer, while other things move farther out of focus.
I am amazed at my ability to see your face so perfectly, and feel your arms holding on so tight.
How easy it is to climb a ladder to an attic, or kiss the sun on your neck in a crowded amusement park.
How I have come to depend on the sound of your voice – old words, old promises - whispered on the Bethany Junior High bleachers, and replayed for twenty-five years.

 
And I hate drunk drivers, and I hate that you are asleep in Paris, Texas…..
without me.
And I will always remember where I was, and I will never forgive Brett for telling me the news.

 
God, I miss you this time of year.
I see a picture from a party, I see a ghost on my left……..and I miss you.