I saw Sundown as she was and as she would always be in my memories, fragile and lonely and in need of a friend, someone to trust, a young woman with dreams and hopes without clarity. All of the time I spent with her went by too fast and yet my last memory of her seems to slow down, way down, as if to draw out the pain and remind me of regret.
One day Sundown had led me by the hand from the backyard into the tool shed behind her house and stood close to me, so close, her pink shirt pressed against my jacket, her hands on my shoulders, her face so close that a whisper sounded like a scream. The shed was dark and dirty and wooden and full of tools with fresh coats of oil to keep them from rusting. I could smell the oil and old grass, and I could see slivers of sunlight coming through the window as the afternoon was giving way to early evening. I saw everything except Sundown.