Snapshot #2

It was the summer before ninth grade. Almost six months since I had marched out of the psych ward, tender pink scars hidden beneath long sleeves and a vow never to come back echoing through my mind. I had spent the past week in my late grandmother’s run-down house in North Carolina, packing thousands of dollars worth of dolls into Corona boxes to be distributed between fifty covetous great grand-children. Sitting on her screened in porch overlooking a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, I called you for the first time in a month.
And I fell in love.