Peppers Come in Late
You can't commiserate when it comes to snow. Snow just makes you smile.
Among my own personal examples of motivated forgetfulness is a country western bar in Texas, my uncle is dancing with my aunt in front of an old jukebox. Juice Newton is singing about love, and Ronnie Milsap just got done about love, and no doubt Linda Ronstadt will soon be singing about love.
The booth is upholstered the same way the car is, it's incredibly dark and smoky, there are bottles of Lone Star and, hell, maybe we are in the car. They were so pretty. I don't think they have ever made people that pretty since, with feathered hair and tan lines on wiry, malnourished bodies.
Good lord, have you ever seen a girl as pretty as your aunt.
I don't think so.
Well don't you get any ideas.
Stop teasin him.
That bottle of beer better be full when I get back.
Leave him alone and come dance with me.
They must have thought we would learn just by watching them, but they wouldn't remember this moment. They were lost somewhere else, and they divorced after a few years just like everyone else back then.
It must be motivated forgetfulness because that's not the kind of scene you'd want to recreate. Hazy pub romancing in a liquored haze with unattended nephews gleaning their life's learning from your wandering hands and carelessly tapped cigarette ashes.
I don't remember any snow back then, so I don't associate it with repressed memories, but it just makes you smile.
I'm sorry about the weather. I'm sure my kids had something to do with it.
It's so pretty, though.
You can't look at it without smiling.
At the gas station, a man buying a lottery ticket and a pizza pocket asks how long it's going to last.
The clerk says a day or two. It's gonna be cold, mostly.
You can't look at it and not smile, I say.