i’m strong, baby

It seems trite, but this is probably what I meant. That time when you (or I, and finally) get off work early, walk to the grass and lie down (or not). I tell you I’m waiting there. We walk to Boat Quay. We drink, a beer, or three. Somehow we talk about a lot of rubbish. We laugh. We’re among friends. You ask me about Queen’s Day. I remember, you asked me to go to Ireland with both of you. I don’t know why I didn’t go — I was broke? I remember Queen’s Day. It was rowdy, mad. Orange. Happy. I never felt as happy as I did then, amidst the broken glass and the green fields surrounded by museums and Tiesto playing for free in the background. Did you remember anything? The men climbing onto the bus stops, singing at the top of their voices? The men urinating on the side of the street, spilling out from the red light districts? It was the Queen’s birthday. It was Holland. It was April, in the spring time, when the sun was shining and youth was endless. My blue sandals. I would give anything to be back there now, free from heartbreak and sorrow and my heart light with happiness. With you, with him, with the beer keg over my head and me sulking in jest. The broken glass. The music. The beer. The 4am train home, because we couldn’t get any other. And we didn’t care, because we had all the time in the world, all the youth in the world. There was always tomorrow to recover. And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.