Mckendy Fils-Aime Two Years Later Ed is driving you home on a night where it is still warm enough for moths to congregate around every street lamp in Brighton. a white light fills the inside of his hatchback & recedes to reveal you & i huddled together in the backseat. we are laughing, my left arm outstretched, tilted at an angle, camera phone in hand. recently i’ve come to adore the selfie & its ability to capture moments—even when they are bound to be dark & blurry there are pictures i never thought to take but still remember: our faces on saturday nights after too much wine, sunday mornings full of jazz & pancakes, our apartment in my car’s rearview, the unpaved seacoast roads two ice cream sandwiches on a blanket at hampton beach, the hours we spent infatuated with the tide’s slow retreat. what i mean to say is: you are an album that contains so many favorite photos. what i mean to say is: i don’t regret anything.