It was summer and I might have been wearing something nice, and summery. Mostly I remember the heat, my bitten lips – for a reason I can not remember now – and sitting in a park. The grass left imprints on my thighs and in his bag he was carrying a heavy book. We held hands.
Sometimes there are things, persons, objects, songs, lines from a book which mean a lot to you; they have gained importance through a certain situation or specific connotations, leaving a trace of something sweet every time they are mentioned. This is what I feel when I read Sylvia Plath. She condensed so many of my feelings and so much of my confusion into her works and what’s more, there is an important date we share now.
He took out his book at some point and shortly read a small passage from it. Or maybe he just handed it to me, open to the page with his thumb on the right sentence. I think that’s how it went, yes, and I think that’s where it was. I had the sudden fantasy of us spread out on the grass staring at the sky, reading out loud The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. People don’t read out loud anymore; but this is the book I am carrying with me now. It’s heavy and scary; but by the end of it, I’ll be even more in love than I was at the beginning.