It was my escape. I’d go there to think, to write, to dream.
He worked for the farmer next door. One day he wandered over and it became a habit. We’d sit and talk for hours. Romance bloomed and after weeks of heavy petting, we finally gave in.
Our passion burned hot as the red dress hugging my curves. I sank down, my wetness enveloping his shaft. His fingers tangled in my hair, our hunger was insatiable.
August ended, 9/11 happened and I never saw him again. Every summer I return, gliding through the poppies, wondering what might have been.
