Making Moments

We spoke French when I still knew how to pronounce the words. We kept it in our back pockets like a secret only the two of us could share. In your arms, I sang to you a song we both knew. You said it felt strange, knowing I was your sister’s age, but it didn’t stop you from inviting me out to the parking lot.


In the backseat of your parents’ van, you kissed me full on the mouth. You wanted to make sure I reached the milestone post haste. You did not linger long enough for me to taste your lips, and the only thing I remember about it was the force behind your movement. A seventeen-year-old girl in my condition had no excuse to remain untouchable, you said. We listened to the stereo until you became persistent, requiring my attention for every moment.

I pushed past you and forced myself to forget. While you searched for me, your smile fading, I hid in the women’s bathroom. There I examined myself in the mirror and counted my zits. It did not surprise me when you found someone else. I watched the two of you dancing like marionettes, perfectly in time with the music.

You disappeared from my life, like a brilliant flash of lightning too soon gone. It is these moments I remember, like the dark between blinks or the space between slides, deep breaths taken when no one is looking.