I remember one summer being in the mountains of Colorado when I was young and I was eating an early dinner in a cabin with open windows and doors and it was more like a rundown cabin than a nice cabin. No one cared about bugs coming in. We were eating off old wooden tables that people had carved their names and sayings into with knives. The summer early evening air was coming in nicely. I was with other kids my age but I don’t remember them individually. I remember the record player was set on the floor playing John Denver records. I remember the woman who didn’t shave her armpits but was so sure of herself. She danced with a man who was cool with a straw hat and blue eyes, she danced with him right in front of us. She just grabbed him and pulled him from his bench and they danced and she was still able to hold her mason jar of water, it was splashing out on all sides, they laced their arms and spun in circles. And the man was just smiling with all his teeth. And I wondered how did that woman know the absolute right thing to do in the exact right moment when it was so random? I was a young teenager then. Confidence was like a foreign language I could appreciate in others but couldn’t speak a word of myself.
This memory, like others in this time and before, is a postcard memory. No return address, nothing. Just this one thing and that’s it.