Across the meadow voices rose in sweet accord lifting with them her injured heart. The Motorola on four wooden legs was a rather undemonic opiate. Who remembers their first dream?
Beyond blue eyes then, beyond the raised fist. The putter dated back to at least 1940. Days of yore were all there were.
A bag of donuts, spotted with grease. How's your love life? In late winter I practiced swinging in the basement.
Or else was the everpresent, albeit unvocalized, threat. The best strawberry jam I ever snuck was in that stairwell. Waking up to eat saltines in the dark, afraid she would follow me.
A downstairs is not misleading. When cold we wrapped ourselves in blankets, crouched by hissing radiators with books. Pheasants mewed past the side yard maple.
The green men were opposed to the blue men. Farewell notes were often found tucked beneath the mattress. In winter, snow crept through the windows and formed a narrow line at the foot of the bed.
I last saw her on Valentine's Day in fifth grade, made a mental note of the white star on her forehead. You fell, that's all.
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