fiction

The Seasons

The Seasons

Summer I remember riding bikes through the alley. I slipped and fell and skinned my knees and hands. Gogo and I sneak into the University Club on Grand Hill. We go skinny-dipping in the pool. We find a diamond necklace at the bottom near the drain – I tell her to keep it, to wear it, to show it off like we have money for diamonds like these. She says, What if I see the woman who owns it? What if she sees me with it on? And what if she says it was me who stole it? What then? I say, And? What then? She laughs and put the diamonds around her neck. She still wears them, I think, but not on special occasions. With t-shirts and sneakers and jeans. Fall. I know the small white house on the corner of Webster Street, and the lady who lives there who looks like my grandmother. She waves at me from the porch with a wrinkled brown palm when I pass on my bike. She once beckoned for me to come inside and offered me cookies still warm from the oven. My memories are made of brick and cement and glass. My dreams are bathed in the sunlight of an autumn day at 4pm. The long shadows that creep over fences and pull at the sidewalk. My dreams are apples picked from trees and flat piano notes from songs I never learned how to play. The air is cool. We make soup on the stove. Roast the apples we picked from the trees. Wear sweatshirts. If the hands of the... read more

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