I’m a little late in saying this, but please join me in a warm welcome to our new writer AnotherChanceToGetItRight. She’s got a lot to share and is a wonderful addition to our RealMental writing staff.

What you don’t know—the memories are so vivid sometimes, they punch me in the stomach.  It’s always unexpected, something triggers them: a song I haven’t heard since 2006 or heat lightning that flashes across the sky or a lecturer, mentioning the common practice elsewhere of men turning the lit end of cigarettes in toward their mouths.  It hits me from nowhere, lights a flame up through my viscera.

I call it conjuring.  The act of making something appear, something that you weren’t expecting.  Something bright and shiny and dangerous.

What you need to know—my dear one, tonight we stood at the ocean with our feet in the surf.  We rolled up our pants and took off our shoes, and we pointed to stars in the horizon.  It was so dark outside—the beach was a private one and we hadn’t expected to be there.  In the dark, I reached back and took your hand.  The waves rolled up on my feet, and I closed my eyes, and it hit me.  Punched me in the stomach.

Suddenly, brilliantly—I conjured up the feeling of you turning me around on a beach down the shore from where we stood tonight.  That night, you swooped down and I turned and you were on one knee.  Things got fucked up after that, but that night was so beautiful and perfect.  And so were you.  And so are you.

My dearest, I conjured you.