BECK

In our smoky garage one day, I almost threw out two boxes of photos. Most things (I learned quickly) are just things. But a family photo on the top of the box caught my eye.

Dozens of photo packets of your early twenties. I was 24. You were 24. How had I never seen these before?

It was the 1970s. You were sleek happy hippie fashion yes. Your boyfriends wore cut-off jorts, rode primary-colored Peugeot road bikes, drove convertibles.

You waited in line at Watkins Glen with flowers in your hair next to naked hippies and trailers towing original tiny houses. You smoked pot on the beach and skinny-dipped in hot springs out West.

You, sandstone tan, road-tripped all over the country.

You lived in my present-day neighborhood “The Hill” — where I also grew up. You and your boyfriend packed up a tiny VW bug to go skiing at Mt. A — my present-day small mountain go-to, no longer a ski hill.

Crooked shots of the beach, mountains, artsy flowers: oozing cool. Photo filter: 40 Years In The Garage.

You sent the Saco River with friends, hitchhiked, backpacked, laughed, skied, dressed up for weddings.

It was amazing to see you there, my blood-peer. Carefree, biking, past forgotten springs with sprightly pigtails. Some of my favorite t-shirts. Posing next to a White Mountain National Forest sign. A woman I entirely didn’t know.

When I was born when you were older, wiser. Careful.

But from 1973–1976, everything was sandy earth tones, primary colors, macrame, and whisky-drinking friends. A skinny bitch smiling at the camera. Breezy, youthful extravagance.

I love(d) you.

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