Of Memory
There's a moment she remembers vividly that she thinks back on often. The two of them - she's driving, he's thumping his leg distractedly in the passenger seat. It's late afternoon in the spring and they're rolling over wet pavement. Her window's cracked to let in the chilly fresh air. She turns to still his movement with a pointed look, but catches instead his face wrapped in his right hand, arm leaned against the passenger side door and eyes glued to the passing sidewalks. It's all she can do not to burst - into a smile, into tears, she's not sure. But that vision of him sticks in her mind. When she pictures it, that feeling of being so full she could burst always swells right up to the surface.