When beautiful strong-willed tiny framed girls ask you to drink wine with them on the outlooks of mountains, do not refuse. 

You were 21 and living at home. Your dreams reflected orchards, and were as thick and alive as the fruit in them. You would go, because you always went. You had the power of motion, in the way that birds know the truth of what it means to fly, but could not give themselves credit to the action. You seemed to possess an firm understanding of your own nature, that I admired and sought after by unwinding the swelling grasp you had on your own passion. You came to visit me when brooklyn streets were veins of electricity, sparking every few moments with a smile or a thing overheard. You resounded like thick laughter, glowed with the freedom that couples with acceptance. You held my hand and I loved you more. I would love you more still.