Lynn Greyling |
Summer People
he was coatless as a boy should be
cutting slices through the summer air
thinking of games until finally his sneakers
touched their walk and he ran to the front
door at the end of the road-side stiching,
breath in happy panting already feeling the
touch of Emily – her family would be in the
kitchen as they were every summer- a pitcher
of cold lemonade with actual slices of lemon
floating - sugar crystals rimming the lip and
he would say “Hi” and the summer would …
But - it was all wrong – anyone could see it
the path weedy – the daylilies dead – the flag
not flapping on the rusty pole over the door –
the house sagged with that empty feel that
unbodied places get – He slumped for a long
while against that kitchen door picking at the
while against that kitchen door picking at the
flaking paint - the sun sank - his mother would
have dinner on the table and be looking out
the window for him - as vocabularly words tumbled
– “incredibly, apparently, evidently, inexplicably” -
they were not coming – there was no envelope
nattily fixed to the door with an explanation –
and never would there be – they were summer-
people after all – their lives as far flung-twinkling
as stars - seemingly set forever only to flicker, flash
have dinner on the table and be looking out
the window for him - as vocabularly words tumbled
– “incredibly, apparently, evidently, inexplicably” -
they were not coming – there was no envelope
nattily fixed to the door with an explanation –
and never would there be – they were summer-
people after all – their lives as far flung-twinkling
as stars - seemingly set forever only to flicker, flash
and without warning slice across the sky burning
bright, and out and irrevocably over.
bright, and out and irrevocably over.