July 09, 2005 - Arboretum

I spent last night out with the Grove, and then over at the Chadwick Arboretum with Anna. We wandered around, laughing and climbing trees. Every time I'm back, I remember how much I missed it.

This time, though, I remembered how I had kissed two girls there, each one for the first time. Both those relationships had ended, but they were both very happy. I still speak to one, and the other stopped speaking to me. As I write this, though, I remember that I did not kiss that second one there. No, I recited poetry. I kissed her later, back in my dorm room. It was before Tina and I kissed in the Arboretum.

I've had nothing but good relationships out of kissing in that Arboretum.

I didn't realize this last night.

I hadn't been there since Tina broke up with me. I think maybe, deep down, I was a bit afraid of what it would be like.

I no longer am. Places don't have memories, people do.

The Labyrinth doesn't remember how I kissed a girl there, or got on one knee to tell another how beautiful she was.

The bench doesn't remember how I sat with my girlfriend and talked about how we wanted to live our lives.

The wind in the trees doesn't laugh about the words I spoke.

It's my memory that remembers these things. The trees may have heard it, but they have heard countless similar things before. If they remember, they'll never tell.

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