Shana gimmel
The summer ended in disappointment. Old familiar spaces began to fill with younger faces and it was time to return to the wooden dwelling place, dimensions nine by thirteen. It seemed foolish to cover bare walls with photographs of those she hadn't seen in many months. It seemed even more foolish that such ties had severed so quickly. Wasn't it just the other day that he had held her on worn gray sheets in that small, square room? Hadn't she just convinced the group to submerge themselves in the nippy swimming pool, fully clothed, water stinging like the biting autumn air currently piercing her skin as she walked alone? Didn't she recently brave the inner-city limits to dance by the moonlight among punctuated animals and unnamed musicians, hidden by a new look that was not her own? It seemed as though a lot had broken since the day a girl and boy bounced sentences back and forth through an open car window. But nothing had really broken. Everything was still intact the way it was before that day of innocent conversation. The difference was only a spark. A spark of time where everything was yellow dandelions and fortune cookies and free pizza and new clothes and "I like you too." Sparks wither; ties sever; walls remain white and bare.