It was a summer day. There was a light breeze and the sky had a color so sharp, it could cut glass. You were wearing a colorful summer dress in a floral pattern. It heralded the warmth and everything living around us. The soft wind danced with your hair — as though it didn’t want to escape it. Everything wanted to be close to you. As did I. Then autumn came. And the idea of “we” deteriorated like the leaves on the trees.
There’s that decisive point in your life—well, apart from gravity hitting your lower chin, the wrinkles growing more crisp, and you’re short of breath much more often—you realize you’re becoming like your father.
Go back to a specific corner in time. The precious few have lived it. They broke the barricades, they climbed the walls, they chose to open their eyes. In a blood rush of love and togetherness, fueled by acid and THC, they stirred a wave from a stagnant pond. With their arms reaching for the sky and with a mission so uniform, they championed the rights of the forgotten, the neglected, the lesser privileged.