Of what? Of hair, when I finally got those first wisps at age four; of baseball; of my first dog, the tan-colored, floppy-haired Bowie, who took a photo wearing a baseball cap; of grapes, round and purple; of the rain, of the snow, of the wind.
Of a girl, at age thirteen. Love? Of a sort. According to her and me, a love more real than anything we had known. But now, perhaps not. Is a love reconsidered, years down the road, still a love?