An Old Picnic Bench

Normally, I would try to make something like my most joyful memory appear elaborate and intensely stylized, but the girl I write about likes short descriptions, so I thought this should be simple and honest.

I said I love you to a girl during the summer. On an old picnic bench littered with geese poop and said geese being very, very, loud. There was a bee that wouldn’t leave us alone (because she was so sweet obviously) and it was hot out. Sitting on that picnic bench, sweating, sweat glowing on her forehead, I said I love you.

I described it once later like I felt I was being filled with warm honey when she replied, “I love you too.” She was sitting on the table, legs on either side of me, staring into my eyes. When I had turned around earlier she asked me why I had stopped looking at the rolling water of the river. I said, “I prefer the view on this side.” Which I quickly followed up with, “there’s a mountain past you you’re kind of blocking my view actually.” We laughed.

I kissed her, and suddenly there was no world. The other people faded away in the park. All that was left were her soft lips. At least until the bee came back, his name is Jeffery and he was incredibly annoying.

I said I love you for the first time on an old picnic bench. There were geese, bees, loud people, and the hot sun, and it’s my most joyful memory. Saying I love you to a girl with beautiful brown curls and magnetic green eyes, and being so absolutely confident in something for once in this life.