So much love. So much love lost. Where did it all go?
I’m driving home alone after a long summer weekend with friends. I draw up beside a pair of young rebels flying down the pavement on a motorcycle in the lane next to mine, defying the law that requires that they wear helmets. Her girlish arms wrap around his waist, her mouth presses against his ear. His head tilts back toward her, his mouth opens in laughter. Her sun-streaked hair flies out behind her.
I know them.
I know them well.
Georgia and Joe; they are the ghosts of my young love and me the summer after my sophmore year at college.
We streak past tall pines crowded thickly together along the side of the highway. My windows are rolled down. The scent of balsam fills my nostrils.
We slow down as we drive through the towns with French and Native American names; names that caress as they slip through my lips, names that translate as, “The Lake That Speaks,” “Translucent Waters,” and “The Breathing Hole of the Gods.”