Memory is a funny thing. I've been thinking lately about an evening from long ago. I was likely about 10. I might've been younger. Hard to say, really- memory isn't quite that precise.

We lived at the small house on the dirt road, that was later paved with delicious, bike-loving blacktop. It was summer. It was very late, because it was totally dark. That doesn't happen in the summer in Montana until around 11:00 or later. The temperature drops incredibly quickly at night there, most nights. Then you see the stars, smell the damp from the grass, and feel the chill starting. It's quite delicious, really.

That particular night, I was on the front steps. The concrete was still warm from the day, and I was in my pajamas. The light was on, the front door was open, and I could hear the TV through the screen door.

More than anything, I didn't want to come inside. I wanted this night to stretch on forever, only I lacked the language to know this. I saw the stars. I felt the heat of the day beneath me. I saw the water from the sprinkler sparkling in the light of the porch. I also saw the green of the grass, almost black in the darkness all around. It was likely one of the most magical nights of my life.

I keep finding myself on that porch in my mind. I'm much smaller in the memories. I'm much more impressed by the magic of the moment. I'm much more transfixed by the colors of the night and the smells of darkness.

I've been thinking about this night a lot lately for some reason. I suspect that I would love to resurrect that sense of magic and mystery in the night. But with the tethers of safety behind my back, linked to me by the sounds of the TV through the screen door and my parents inside the house.

But then, there really isn't any going back now, is there. I'll just have to soldier on, using this memory as a foundation for new dreams of magic and mystery.