There was a time during the fall of that year when we would sit and smoke marijuana and read poems to one another out loud on the porch. I’ll admit now that I never understood them. The rapidity with which they gestured at meaning, their texture somehow reminding me of those plants which spend their whole lives underwater. They puzzled me. Now, I don’t even remember which ones we read. I wish to promise you, though, that it wasn’t for the warm haze of those evenings or the drugs that my mind wandered so. Rather, it was the way you controlled your breath as you read. In that motion were all the notes and words that ever passed through your throat. I remember that, and for me, from those evenings, that is enough to remember.