Last night, we had a party at my house for The Boyfriend. It was warm outside, and I negotiated with the taco truck around the corner for a stack of too-good tacos and I created some kind of tequila concoction that was awful.
His good friends.
My good friends.
All gathered around in my living room.
I put up a card table, brought in every single chair we could find (even the bag chairs from the garage), and we laughed.
So many times, I buried my face into The Boyfriend's shoulder laughing, wiping my tears away, and holding on to my sore ribs -- gingerly rubbing the place where my errant gallbladder used to reside.
When I was little, we had Sunday dinner around the table. My dad would tell wild stories and we'd heard them all before, but still.
The laughing was constant. His eyes crinkle when he laughs, and his hands gesture wildly. He tells the most amazing stories. And I used to think it was a little slice of heaven, you know? That's what it's all about, I think.
Sitting together with the people that you love most.
Shoulder to shoulder with the people that have watched you change - that have let you change.
Laughing with the people that know about all of your insides.
When I think about memories - when I think about the days that will ultimately stay with me until the end - I sometimes think of them in color.
And last night, when the laughter raised up from the too small table and poured out through the open windows ...
It was golden. A soft yellow.
Kind of like the color of the lamp light on the white walls at 11:30 p.m. on a February Saturday night.
Here's to the golden memories. All of them.
. About Moi .
I love, love, love flannel sheets and I am really passionate about lists on post it notes and most of the time I'm sad that no one else is as excited as I am about Diet Mountain Dew. I also adore run-on sentences. And if you need an awesome virtual assistant, who is full of personality and really good jokes? Email me. I'm your girl.
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He saw her before he saw
anything else in the room.
- F. Scott Fitzgerald
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