The Seasons

The Seasons

In Summer. The sun shining from its perch high in the sky. I remember riding my bike through the alley. I slipped and fell and skinned my knees and hands. Gogo and I snuck into the University Club on Grand Hill overlooking the city. We hold hands and go skinny-dipping in the pool. I find a diamond necklace left at the bottom near the drain – I give it to Gogo and tell her to keep it, to wear it, show it off like we have money for diamonds. She says, But. What if I see the woman who owns this necklace? 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. In Fall. The small white house on the corner of Webster Street. The lady who lives there who looks like my grandmother. She waves at me from the porch with her wrinkled brown palm as I pass on my bike. Once, two-or-three years ago, she beckoned for me to come inside. She gave me cookies still warm from the oven. My memories are made of brick and cement and glass. My dreams are bathed in waning sunlight of an autumn day. Long shadows creep over fences and pull at the sidewalk after 4. My dreams are apples picked from trees and flat piano notes from songs I never learned how to play. The air is...