A poem I wrote a few years ago about how I thought I'd be remembering things now. I'm glad I was wrong.
someday when I'm old (but not gray)
I will flash back to this afternoon at 4 pm
my 30-something-year-old self
sitting on the brick steps leading to my back door
bamboo waving in the warm September air
the sun thinking about checking out for the day
my ankles being devoured by mosquitoes
listening to you say you can't wait to live in the mountains
and thinking about that time
when I will lose you to their peaks.