the window smells of old tobacco dust and rain
I'm having a sleep over at the 'rents. Mischief is sleeping sweetly in the next room. Mouth is at his Dad's.
There is intermittent thunder in a humid July. I am full of voice and word virus.
I spent the evening hanging out with Taller, Tosh and three of their friends. We played Magic, barefoot soccer until dusk, went Nightswimming and even played Marco Polo in the rain. Stars! This is the texture of summer. Or at least what summer felt like when there was still a summer. And it may come as no surprise to any of you that this is still essentially my idea of a really good time. I'm endlessly amused by watching five adolescent boys stay up super late, argue about rules and protocol - consider that these are two sets of siblings- and descend on the pantry like locusts, further proving that I'm still a (tom)boy at heart.
It's a diversion, I know. A smokescreen. But one that denies me nothing essential like oxygen or sight. It's one that reminds me of something as akin to real innocence as I can remember. And it's not recollection because it's happening... it's repetition of a sorts - a day trip into dark fields where fireflies dot the ecchoing green. And quiet grief comes creeping in the small spaces where I wait for Mischief to fall asleep, dreaming...
There is intermittent thunder in a humid July. I am full of voice and word virus.
I spent the evening hanging out with Taller, Tosh and three of their friends. We played Magic, barefoot soccer until dusk, went Nightswimming and even played Marco Polo in the rain. Stars! This is the texture of summer. Or at least what summer felt like when there was still a summer. And it may come as no surprise to any of you that this is still essentially my idea of a really good time. I'm endlessly amused by watching five adolescent boys stay up super late, argue about rules and protocol - consider that these are two sets of siblings- and descend on the pantry like locusts, further proving that I'm still a (tom)boy at heart.
It's a diversion, I know. A smokescreen. But one that denies me nothing essential like oxygen or sight. It's one that reminds me of something as akin to real innocence as I can remember. And it's not recollection because it's happening... it's repetition of a sorts - a day trip into dark fields where fireflies dot the ecchoing green. And quiet grief comes creeping in the small spaces where I wait for Mischief to fall asleep, dreaming...