inevitable: you, boisterous, a full Northern woman and I, curious, a man from the South. Oh, those heady days. All of us in our white shirts and shorts, prancing around under the 1, hormones burning with thoughts of undetected trysts, blood hot from daily parades, sweating in the sun.
I was sad in those days, sullen even. It seemed to me like I was about to piss away one year of my life. Then one day, after we had sweated on the parade ground, you dragged me towards a photobooth.
“Senior man! Cheer up and let us document these moments,” you said, laughing your high-pitched laugh. Years later, in New York, when I read Anne Carson’s The Gender of Sound, I raised my cup in memory of your laughter. That day at the photobooth, I refused to be photographed. You went in front of the camera alone, striking different poses, your laughter reverberating with shutter sounds. I still have photographs of you from those days. Yet, when I think of you, the image that comes to mind is different.