When things were simple

Cydney Ramos

Long Island was pretty boring. Rich white kids and old people made up of the area I lived in. I never realized how cool it was that I lived in a beach town until I told you how it was back at home. I promised to take you there, told you we’d bring a little tent and camp out.

The beaches were expensive to get a pass to go on, but I know a secret entrance that honestly wasn’t secret at all. Although it’s a rich beach town, it’s also a town with poor kids who’d break the gates making them useless to their purpose. It only took a few weeks of convincing you we had to take a road trip there. We’d only known each other for a month and a few weeks, but you had no problem. Long Island was almost 7 hours away. So we got up around 4am and started our long drive. I also convinced you to take a 5 hour energy shot. When we first got on the road I screamed to make you laugh because a raccoon ran across the road. You always really liked when I just randomly screamed. You didn’t like it that much at the time though because it was 4 in the morning and I could tell you barely could keep your eyes open. It was a week before Halloween and most of our drive was in the dark. The sun, which seemed like it would never come up at the time, rose after 7 o’clock. It was such a relief between the bright head lights of every vehicle on the highway to the literal hail, I was actually starting to believe it would never come up.

I tortured you with my music that you don’t like for a few hours and you just held my hand trying not to fall asleep behind the wheel. Sometimes I sit around thinking about that time, when things were simple. And I wish I had appreciated it more when I had the chance.