(no subject)
Seth's parents are much older in this story. It doesn't matter how old they really are, or if they were ever young, only that their faces resemble peach pits. Seth knows this and does not look; he can only imagine those same expressions worn thin. Afterwards, he sits in his Miata, staring at the bleach white house, the black shutters, windchimes. Snow has melted, turned brown with mud, withered to gauze on the stiff grass. What is it about this story that draws Seth into it, each time less human? He cannot even remember his parent's names or what I have left out: the lawnmower's dull blade, the wine stain on his white shirt. Suddenly, he pulls out of the driveway without looking back, aware of his parent's waving. He drives until something in the telling, or in my voice, catches and tugs, unable to go down. I don't know what happens next, maybe the road's slow lift to blue? I cannot even tell you the meaning, the moral, except that later, in your version lying in bed, you will watch the fan spin: the shadows it casts on the ceiling will bring you back to the days of chlorine and lemon tea, back to playing the whale: how you sank to the bottom of the pool, laughter drowning out like bees, sunlight flowering on the floor.