Romance in Michigan

The first time I formally met J.T. was on my walk home from school when I was 15. I remember how he said my name aloud: "Aimee Jolouise?"

He was sitting on the front porch of his home, the afternoon autumn sun beaming down on him. All the houses on that street are small houses and his was no exception.

"Are you going straight home? Its beautiful out, and I have something I'd like to show you."

I hesitated, and then walked over to him, "oh yeah? Like what?"

He jumped up, "follow me!"

Teenaged, and rebellious, I followed him into the muddy cornfield in his backyard. My feet began to sink and I cried out in protest, but he was walking quickly so I abandoned my shoes and followed behind him.

I suppose sometimes its better to say nothing. I was in the company of a stranger, we were in a forest, tip-toeing barefoot along side a river. I tried to read the expression on his face. He looked peaceful, like this was where he belonged.

He jumped down from the bank onto a sandbar crafted by the river's current. I followed and my feet sank into the cold sand. He was searching for stones to skip. I looked into the icy-clear water and noticed a dark black stone. It reminded me of a trip my father took me on when I was little and a stone I had kept that had been smoothed by the water of Lake Michigan. I reached down and picked it up, squeezing it in my palm.

"J.T.?" I asked. He looked up at me and I handed him the stone and then skipped back up to the bank and tried to find a path around a thicket. He grabbed my hand and showed me the way through a patch of sumac trees and into a clearing of golden grass.

He lay down on his back, and I followed suit, making eye contact with sky.

Some memory, some simpler time in Michigan followed with romance and adventure and ending with bitter resentment. When they're done with you, it is just that.

They are done.