I was driving home the other night from the grocery store, when I decided to take the back way. It was a shorter drive, though it would take longer because of the dirt roads ' but the moon was up, and full, and there was enough pink left on the western horizon to outline the mountains. Then I drove by the Weismann's tailwater pond, and everything changed. The moon was at exactly the right angle to reflect off the ice, and in an instant, I was back there ' back with you, twenty-five long years ago.

It was an instant full-body regression. Everything came back ' sounds, sights, tastes, smells. Especially the smells - but it was the McDonald's smell that hit me the hardest. I was shaking so hard, I had to pull over ' and once I got the pickup stopped, there was nothing I could do but let it all wash over me, and hope it would stop.

We passed it every morning on our way to school. I never really understood why they put it there, right off the railroad tracks and a mile away from anything that could be considered a main road. Many of the kids who passed by could have been riding buses, and it was only luck that most of us preferred the longer walk to the noisy ride. Whatever their reason for picking that place, though, it was a little bonus we took advantage of often.

It all started there. We'd stopped on the way home to grab something to eat, and grabbed a booth to ourselves. I'd been hoping for this ' we split just a block up the street, you heading down Lafayette to your apartment, while I headed up the hill to my house, and that separation had been getting harder and harder for me. Not that I would ever have admitted to it. Hell, you were eighteen, a senior, and popular ' and I was a mousy, nerdy little fifteen-year-old freshman who still couldn't understand why you even talked to me. I just put it off to the fortunate coincidence that we both went in the same direction when we left school.

We screwed around for a while in there, trying to throw French fries in each other's mouths, and missing more often than not. We finished and started to gather our stuff, but you bumped into me on purpose just as I picked my books up, and they scattered. You tried to help me pick them up ' but when you reached for the tablet, I snatched it out of your hands.

You grinned, and asked if it was my diary. I told you it wasn't and hoped you'd drop it, but you didn't. Instead, you asked why I wouldn't let you touch it if it wasn't that important. By this time, we were heading out the door and up to the corner, so I kept trying to put you off until we reached where we parted, so I wouldn't have to answer you.

I have to give you credit for persistence, though. We weren't half a block up the street before I finally admitted that it was the book I wrote my poetry in. I didn't expect you to admit you wrote poetry, too. And then you asked me if you could read them.

I didn't know what to say - the last two poems in the book had your name all over them. In the case of the very last one, that was literal ' I'd used the letters of your name to start each line. And coloured them. If I let you have the book there was no way I could hide the way I felt. On the other hand, I wanted you to know'�

I panicked, and did the only thing I could think of - I lied. I told you that I had some unfinished work in the back, and you had to promise not to read them. I was pretty sure you would ' but that might not be such a bad thing. If you didn't feel the same way, you could always say you kept your promise, and if you did, well ' we could burn that bridge when we came to it. All in all, it was a win-win situation.

You promised, and I handed you the book ' and watched my whole world come apart right in front of me. Because you turned. Right. To. The. Back.

In the next few seconds, I went through every cliché ever written. I felt like I'd been kicked by a mule, I wished for the sidewalk to open up and swallow me ' you name it. What I did, though, was turn around and walk off, trying to sob silently enough to hold on to at least some of my dignity.

When I finally heard you calling me, I ignored you. I didn't want to add to the humiliation I was feeling by seeing the pity on your face. You never gave up, though ' I should have known that. You were also a lot taller than me. I only got half a block before I felt your hand on my shoulder.

Time for another cliché ' trapped like a rat. You turned me around, but all I could see was your knees. I couldn't bring myself to look up.

'Jen, look at me.'�

I shook my head.

'Jen'� now. I mean it.'�

I looked up ' and you were smiling. The same smile that made your whole face glow, the one that had gotten me here in the first place. And then you said the last thing I'd expected to hear.

'Silly girl. I knew why you didn't want me to read them, but I had to. I love you too ' and I didn't know how to tell you.'�

And you kissed me, right there in the middle of the sidewalk.

I looked at the pond. The moonlight was still shining on it ' and it still looked the same as it did shining on the harbour across the street the night you ended it'�ended us. I've never been able to see the moon shining in that way without remembering you, and feeling my heart break in just the same way.

But I had a truckload of groceries, and a family at home waiting for me. So I started the pickup and drove off ' leaving you standing beside that frozen pond, holding the ghost of a young girl who was crying on your shoulder, again.

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