Free Rhythm by Ena

that has to do with you,” he
says then opens my gift.
    His reaction is unexpected. He is teary-eyed
while scanning the photo album slash scrapbook that I prepared for
him. We are the only couple I know who aren’t fond of taking
pictures, so the few photos we have together, I treasure.
    He scans dreamily and happily, looking at the
memories that were captured. Most are stolen shots taken by Cale
who is into photography.
    I love stolen shots. It is the most honest
expression of what we truly feel or who we truly are. We don’t have
to pretend feeling something or being someone that we are not. When
you know there’s a camera that will capture a particular moment,
you’ll be asked to smile before the photographer snaps a shot—and
that’s what most pictures will show, a smiling you even if you
don’t feel like smiling because really, who likes ughtos —or
ugly photos? No one, but me. I prefer ughtos than pretos —or
pretentious photos.
    He stops, looking at a certain picture—which
is my favorite—and looks at it longer than the others.
    In the photo, we are mid-walking. I still
remember that day.
    Grant was waiting for me to pass by my locker
to ask a rubbish question, which for him is utterly important.
    He asked if I knew all along that the ‘blue
moon’ is not really blue. I said, “Of course,” then I laughed. Who
wouldn’t? I would understand if he was four years old, but he was a
decade (and more) older than a four-year old. He shook his head
then laughed with me. That’s when Cale took our photo.
    Grant’s taller to me by a short, pun
intended, length of 14 inches. So in the photo, I’m looking up at
him and he’s looking down at me. We’re both laughing, not touching,
and apart by a few inches. The photo says it all: We love each
other beyond words could ever explain.
    Did I mention that I love stolen shots?
    “Thank you for this, Rhy. I am glad to have a
reminder of how genuine our love for each other is.”
    “You’re welcome, love.” I am getting used by
this—calling him love and not Grant, and I love it.
    “I want to end this day by playing a game
we’ll call Gratitude Game or simply GraGam or G2 or whatever name
you want to call it, really,” Grant declares.
    “Oh, yeah? Tell me more about it.”
    “Each of us will tell something we are
grateful for. After each grateful thing, we will release a balloon.
The sentence should be preluded by the words I, am, and grateful in
that exact order, and tell the reason you are grateful for it.
Originally, you may say anything under the sun what you are
grateful for, but for the sake of our celebration, we’ll stick to
our theme: our relationship, us, Rhy, Grant, anything to do with
what we are celebrating today. Questions?”
    “Originally, you say? Where did it
originate?”
    “From you.”
    “I didn’t invent that kind of game.”
    “I mean, I thought of that game because of
you. You are my thank you girl, remember?” He wiggles his
eyebrows.
    “Oh.” I remember. “Any more rules?”
    “We’ll tell six each to complete twelve
things we are grateful for.”
    “Why twelve?”
    “To represent the months we’ve been
together.”
    “Okay.”
    “Ready?”
    “Yes. You go first.”
    “Okay. I am grateful for you, Rhythm Isabelle
Pratte, because you are simply one of the best blessings I have.”
He releases his first balloon.
    “I am grateful for this cliff. This place is
a witness to our special moments. Like today.” I release mine.
    “I am grateful for the opportunity to attend
college other than in my hometown. College life where you are is .
. . amazing.” He grins.
    “I am grateful for my parents, even in their
absence, because they somehow led me to experience the love I never
imagine I would have.”
    “I am grateful for your rule about the
physical thing because I come to appreciate more the value of
it.”
    “You are?”
    “Yes. Your turn.”
    “I am grateful that you accepted my second
rule because I want a man