She's sick and snoring and radiating fever, curled up with her head on my chest, clutching my finger in her tiny pollen-smeared hand, and she's sharp and wild and brilliant, like the sun.
0 Comments
The back door is open, in the summer twilight, and the yellowgreen half-light of the storm shines in and redyellow light of the kitchen shines out, through the screen door and across the battered blue porch and down the dark stone steps and into the wet cool green of the garden, and the rain clatters down on the leaves.
It's summer and it's hot, all of a sudden, and I smelled little pink roses and wore sunglasses and went to a birthday party and and drank fizzy water and burned a bunch of sticks and watched the air shimmer over the fire pit and stood barefoot in the grass and ate pie with my hands and remembered what it felt like to be with my friends and now I'm home and it's cool and quiet and late and I'm covered with a thin layer of salt and my hair is smoky and my feet are dirty and I can hear the wind in the Douglas firs, rushing through the dark.
The wisteria is starting to bloom and the tiny vine with baby leaves that I worried wasn't getting enough water or maybe enough sun or just definitely not enough of something, what if it dies, is now a gorgeous enthusiastic monstrosity, a thousand thousand fat yellowgreen leaves and an ocean of gently waving tentacles and masses of flowers just starting to open, little crumpled-up purple fists that get bigger and bigger and bigger and honestly anything could happen at this point.
|
AuthorBitter Water
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. Archives
June 2019
Categories© Francie Nevill and Every Sweet Thing, 2017.
|