Remembering Summer of 1971

I see the foot petal shaped like a bare foot and I remember. Summer of 1971, white jeans, pink shirt, driving to beaches. I smell the fish in the water, memories flood back instantly. Your hazel eyes, and the way you look at me as if I am candy. Memories upon memories happen; they chase each other. The lavender blanket, the green straw hat, how I loved you. How you adored me. Summer of 1971, never to be replicated. We were one, you and I; I never got that again. Did you? I had never had a TV dinner until that summer; they are bad. Better now but we did not care. When I close my eyes I can see carrots. They were cut into tiny squares, abnormal, surreal on fake tin. Swanson chicken pot pies, we consumed them like they were candy. My car had a hole through the floor under the foot pedal. Remember that? You thought it was wicked; for me it was normal. We laughed about everything, and spoke of things above our head. Neither of us understood the horrors of the Viet Nam War yet. We had survived the assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King and JFK. We had seen the church in Birmingham bombed with four little girls. We did not grow up in innocent times, but summer of 1971 was innocent. We were fresh, new, eager young pups, exploring unfamiliar territory. The sun, the moon, and the stars were on our side; we felt magical. We were one that summer; a mystical time. This foot pedal reminded me. I thank God that memories of you at 20 came flooding back, it is a gift. In this time of uncertainty, it made me smile and sign as I remember us.