Regardless of Mr. Big Balls H3 I still found the bridge beautiful and was immediately transported to our college apartment. Having completed my 60-minute morning ritual, I wake her up five minutes before our class starts and walking through the rainy campus we engage in detailed conversations about this week's Shakespeare play we were both assigned to read but invariably I am the one who finishes it.
I was at Stonehenge taking goofy pictures with her, thinking that looking overly confused next to the Celtic monument of myth and lore is hysterically funny and proud that our joke is now captured on film. This process of nerdy hysteria is repeated in Dorchester as we pretend to be famous Jane Austen characters while standing on an obscure street corner no one but a true bibliophile would recognize as critically important to the cannon of English literature.
I was in Vermont visiting both her family and the 19th century mansion she called home and loved so profoundly. We were hiking through rolling hills, spending endless hours swimming in the chilly river as we slid down mossy rocks approaching the waterfall. Our car windows rolled down, the world smells green, Dar serenades a folk tale of Christians and Pagans, and we cross bridge after covered bridge on our way to nowhere in particular. I miss her.
