Keep 'Em Dry

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Everything on here is unoriginal and unimpressive,
and, most importantly, not mine.
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It was Sundays that we’d take drives. We’d take different roads each time leading out of town and eventually turning to gravel. Once the sound of the rocks hitting the bottom of the car drowned out the purring of the engine, that was when our worries disappeared and we became reminiscent of the kids we once were. It was like we transformed right then into ourselves at 17. Our love was new again. Sometimes if it was nice out we’d roll the windows down and her hair would blow in the wind and it seemed she was perfectly suited to wind in her hair and a giant cloud of dust following her down the road.

Thinking back on these times she looks better than ever. The perfect song would always be playing, though we never had the radio on, the birds would sing a tune into my head. In those times I always had a song in my head. My memories had become cinematic recollections with perfect lighting and the right sounds at the right time—maybe that’s how it actually was.

Then we’d see something that caught our eye, I knew when she wanted to stop, because she’d see the little pond with the cows in it or the abandoned barn and then give me the look that she’d always give. It was like I owed her something, but the stop was all she wanted. And we’d stop. I’d kiss her. We’d sit there, impressed by what we’d found. By the time we decided to leave, this place would be in our heads for good.

She didn’t say much on the way back home. It makes me smile thinking of our drives. The way the scenery seemed to get dressed up for us. The wheat fields always put on their Sunday best for us. It was always more impressive on these summer Sundays.