My Australian Memory
The air was thick and the loose strands of hair stuck to the back of my neck. I was hot and people crowded the outdoor farmer’s market, but it forced us to walk closer. My sweaty shoulder touching his forearm. He bought me corn of the cob, knowing roasted yellow kernels make me happy. Absurdly happy. We walked together in Sydney as locals pushed handmade goods into our hands as we passed, but nothing struck me as mine.
JD knew I was on the hunt for a memento from our trip, something that reminded me of us. There. There were silver bracelets, turquoise rings, afghans, wooden boxes with gray dolphins painted on the top, but nothing that stood out. Almost giving up hope, we stopped at an artist’s booth and chatted. I was lured by the simple designs, but completely smitten with a series of Studio Oat drawings. Just a boy and a girl. In love.
It was then that I knew I found my thing. My Australian memory. Of farmer’s markets in The Rocks. Of a stray piece of corn JD wiped from my chin. Of me living my dream. Out loud.
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