Throwback

A guitar riff begins, lights lowered. 

I bought a ticket that morning. Life had been changing and I needed to tether myself to something familiar. Now I’m swaying in silhouette with the crowd. I don’t remember this song at first, but my body does. My hips trace its beats, measure a forgotten time. 

I’m 17 – chasing freedom from the passenger seat of my best friend’s car. The promise of fresh, summer air is rich on my tongue as I imagine the life that waits beyond high school and the river that edges our town. 

I’m 20 – standing lip-to-lip in the dizzy heat of young love, devouring the soft parts of himself that he hides away. My heart collapsing in my chest, my body into his.

I’m 22 – watching the ocean slink toward me from my first home away from home. The cool, wet sand is slick on my heels as the tide pulls it out to the horizon.

From the stage, the lights tip upward and break across the room. The singer’s voice builds from a deep place of longing, so syrup thick and sweet as he asks: “Can you still feel the butterflies?”

Photo by Koen meyssen on Unsplash.