I’ve been thinking lately about perfect moments. There those events in your history that aren’t weighed down by the stresses of life. You can start your day anxious and cranky, and you could end your day depressed and disappointed, but in the middle, time stands still, and everything is as it should be. I’m almost fifty, and I have so many.

I can remember with clarity my first kiss (in the back of a GATE van, fist-bump), even if I can’t remember the reason we were in Albuquerque, or the fact that I figured out shortly after that I didn’t even like this person. I can recall what she was wearing, and the fact that she had to make the first move before I noticed.

I remember walking by a canal in Florida with my parents, who were married forty-four years by this point and were still holding hands. I recall the yellow-green of the grass, the fence to the left, and trees in the near distance.

I remember Newcastle chasing me through the apartment until I jumped onto the bed, and he joined me, and we snuggled together on the green sheets.

There’s so many.

I have a favorite. It’s stuck with me for over twenty years because it was perfect. It’s an unremarkable moment, and I feel safe in assuming that all of my friends, including Facebook friends, experience this. There was something about this time, though, that didn’t fade.

In January or February, 2003, I had spent the night at my girlfriend’s apartment. We had known each other as long as we’d lived in New York, but we were still in our honeymoon period. Work beckoned us, so we bundled up and walked to my subway station in the cold and snow, surrounded by drifts of dirty ice. She lived on 210th Street, so the trains were all elevated, so we hid from the precipitation under the tracks, with the painted girders. Casually, she kissed me goodbye before heading off to her own train.

And that’s it. That is the moment that sticks out to me the most. I remember the black belt of her black coat and her debutante gloves. I remember the leopard print lining of her hat. I remember her hand on my heart, a gesture she made a lot with me. I remember that it was the most natural thing in the world.

She had kissed me goodbye before, but something had changed. This time I felt like I was an important part of her life, not just some guy. She seemed a little more relaxed. And for the first time, I felt like I was good enough for her. She and I had dated twice before this, and we felt hopeful that the third time would be a charm. There was a lot of hope in that kiss. We were really good friends, even before we started dating (again), so there was comfort.

The third time was not a charm. A few months later, I had a depressive episode and broke up with her over the phone. We stayed friends, though not as close as before, and then we became really close again long-distance. Unfortunately, I was cut off from most of my friends during my marriage, so we drifted apart, and our current lives are about as opposite they can get. I don’t expect she even remembers this because it was so mundane. It was my moment.

Why is this my favorite memory? I think it was the intimacy of it.

So many lifetimes later, I will always have that moment, that kiss in the snow, when everything was perfect.