I remember The Cribs,

The romantic and the realist,

The sunny days filled with hope and anticipation before we cared, before money mattered and all all we could do was look ahead,

The love that we all had for observation and to gather a connection,

The call on the campus lawn at a picnic table in the bright light of the dark night where we knew the same things even though we couldn’t be further,

An appointment with consolation; the wishes for each other and an empty, absent longing

There was no ‘ask’, no appeal, not a thing in it at all that could tear at the tight-knit seams back when envy was meaningless and experience was everything

I remember all the smiles,

And criticisms,

And witticisms about the endless cast of absurd and silly characters that stepped in and out of our lives as we carried with us the knowledge that they’d matter no more soon

I remember the way we talked, and the sights and sounds,

The sorrows and aches,

The tears and fears,

But mostly I remember the cribs