The Day We Met

A Story of Love and Time

“Do you remember the first day we met?” you say.

Of course, I do. I’ll never forget that day. As memories do, they come to me in flashes of images. You’re alone at the beach. Burying your feet in the sand. No umbrella. No towel. Just you and the sun. Like all twenty-four-year-olds, you think you’re invincible.

I sit a few yards away on a large beach towel. A massive umbrella envelops me in shade. I knead sunscreen into my forty-year-old skin. I’m desperately hoping to rub away a few years.

You look over and say, “I probably should’ve brought some of that.”

You smile. I melt. Then I share. We laugh. We lunch. You tell me you’ve always liked older men. We kiss. We never leave each other’s side again.

After you die, I go to a Displacement Center against the children’s wishes. The man in the cubicle asks about you. I tell him we were together for thirty years. He tells me he’s jealous. He’s yet to find love. I tell him he should be. Everyone should have what we had.

He asks me what day I’d like to go back to visit.

“The day we met,” I say.

The next thing I remember, I’m standing on the beach. And there you are. Only a few feet away. You’re burying your feet. No towel. No umbrella. Just you and the sun.

Then a man walks past me. He unfolds his umbrella and plants it in the sand. He lays out a towel and sits. It’s me. I’m so much younger. Then I take out my sunscreen and lather it on. Just before you speak, I interrupt.

“Hey, son. Do you mind if I borrow some of that?” I say to a younger me, “I left mine back at home.”

“Absolutely,” he says.

I suddenly remember this moment. It’s a memory I never had before. I remember thinking how rude it was to just ask someone for their sunscreen. A stranger. I smile. Then I look over to you, watching me put on sunscreen.

“Did you forget yours, too?” I say.

You smile and nod your head.

“I’m sure this boy won’t mind sharing. Do you?”