Why memories exist.

He flicked the lighter until his thumb hurt. He helped me light the pipe I helped him buy last winter. With his hand he blocked the summer wind from the cherry I made that sunny afternoon. We sat on a power box and watched with our legs dangling as alien ships lifted from the windows of Extra Foods and burst through the ivory white clouds. One of them collided with an airplane. An explosion of red, white and yellow billowed with smoldering black cloud against the blue-clad sky. A piece of shrapnel plummeted downwards and scalded the wind-swept grass between us and Nordstrom crescent. We sat in stoned bewilderment as an alien writhed piteously, looked up to us, and died. We drank our water that was warmed by the sun. We discussed how happy we were to be there, twenty years old swinging our bare feet on a blistering day. Then we left, knowing we'd reflect on it and remember the alien, our bare feet, and how happy we were to be alive.