For me, one of these moments was living in Portland, Oregon and cutting through the cemetery near the bar we all used to hang out at. This wasn't the first time we'd cut through the graves nor even the last time, but it was this one time that sticks with me.
It was fairly humid for Oregon on that particular evening, but not overly warm. I was still sporting my leather jacket, the one I'd bought with birthday money because I'd started to go back toward my old über goth days. We'd left the bar with the desire to go do something else, but what that something else was, I cannot remember.
We had to hop the fence to get into the cemetery, an old chain link that was taller than me. I wonder if, eight years later, I might still be able to monkey over it as easily as I did that night. There was the rich scent of the earth and fresh cut grass, the mound of dirt covering a fresh grave and the piles of flowers around it signifying that whoever it was had been well loved. I didn't stop to read the marker, just kept going on with my friends talking about writing and politics and art.
The words we spoke aren't the important thing and though I think I remember what we all said, time has a way of changing our memories.
After we'd cut through the graveyard, I got into the car and started it up, my little blue 1991 Honda Civic. The radio had just started to play "Hey Jealousy" by the Gin Blossoms and a little part of my heart was pulled out.
And you know it might not be that bad
You were the best I ever had
If I hadn't blown the whole thing years ago
I might not be alone
There are days, moments really, when all I really want is to be back in that graveyard on that night with those people, though I may never know why it's specifically that night I seem to remember with such clarity - it was always the same group of people.