I remember twenty. Do you?

I remember the pull of love. The almost obsession. The need of my wanting. The fear I had of anyone leaving. And all that spontaneous weeping! I feared time. I knew it could unravel unfavorably. We were young. This could end. But then it didn't. We followed and wondered and worried and wandered. Night after night, we slept beneath the same blanket. We once had a dog. We miss her still. We had many jobs. We had a baby and then four years later, we had another. And now there are children in a bedroom I once painted green, sleeping. Except when they are awake and playing, screaming, singing, running, or climbing like monkeys across our torn and worn furniture.  Now, I am forty and we live in a boat of a house on the edge of a hilly wooden bay and I can't help but think about our beginning. And about this boisterous moment. I remember twenty. Do you? Do you miss it? The simplicity of it? It wasn't simple. But it seems that way now. Are you wondering about my young pull of love? It's here. I am that beautiful child still. The one pulled by love. The one laughing and eating and running and dreaming. The one timid but climbing, like a monkey, from the box made for good little girls. I am still quite quiet and reserved, but I am returning to myself. I am rediscovering my deep wildflower soul, and let me tell you, it is bold.