We're sitting on the porch, all three of us, plywood covered with aging gray paint, underneath a green and white roof and shaded by a wall of wisteria, cut back hard a few days ago and uncharacteristically contained, like a new haircut that's a little too precise, and the kiddo and I are looking down at the ice cubes in a sweating pint mason jar three-quarters full of Shasta rootbeer. They weren't quite frozen when we put them in, and we're watching sinkholes fill up with brown fizzing liquid and exclaiming over sparkling frozen air bubbles, arrested mid-bloop, like lava lamp goo, in wet shining ice as clear as glass, and marveling at the spray of small white scratches floating up against the fat white top of the cube--strings of tiny air bubbles forced up as the water expanded, maybe?--like intricate glass sculptures, bobbing around in rootbeer and glinting in the warm sunlight, as the cool breeze slides over our bare arms.
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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.
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