Remember, that day in the summer when you and I would just sit and talk? About all sorts of things. About the way I talked and the way you always wore your glasses so low that they'd fall off. I didn't like it, when the rim covered up your aquamarine-and-emerald eyes. I told you so and you laughed and pushed your glasses back. You said you liked the Beatles and I thought you were weird for liking 60's music. You said you liked strawberry jam and strawberry icecream and strawberry cake and I never liked strawberries and you said I was weird. But that's okay, because you would sing that song called "Strawberry Fields Forever" in your really bad singing voice and I couldn't stay mad at you.

Remember, that day in the fall, when you and I sat under the big, ugly oak tree in the park? I was sad that day because my cat ran away. I told you she was the prettiest, whitest, meanest thing in the world, and you told me a cat like that could make it in the wild. I didn't believe you, so you bought me strawberry icecream to make me feel better. But I told you I didn't like strawberries.

Remember, that day in the winter when you and I stayed inside drinking toasty warm hot coco? You burnt your tongue and told me it was my fault for making it too hot. I thought you were silly, but I said sorry and I kissed you. You didn't say anything about the hot-hot coco after that.

Remember, that day in the spring when I told you that my big white cat ran away with winter, and you laughed and said I made no sense? I thought I made a ton of sense, and I reminded you that she was the prettiest, whitest, meanest thing in the world and you thought it didn't sound like winter and laughed, pushing your glasses up. I saw your pretty aquamarine-and-emerald eyes and smiled and you said, "What?" and it just made me smile bigger and brighter. You're really good at making me smile, you know?



The way you smiled back told me you knew.