Sundays.

The eighth year, a red brick house, cherries ripened on the peppered tree outside the window pane. The girl next door, my best friend, had a spacious front yard. It seemed miles long. Against the seasoned heat, dragonflies swarmed the open space. It was surreal, hundreds of rhythmic, translucent wings. The air swathed in rainbow sherbet. My lively heart soared next to the winged masses. Arms spread wide, chin up, I would spin and spin and spin, staring at the miraculous creatures braiding in white sun dresses. The fire-breathing animals. It’s strange now to think of open fields. Outside the parlor window rests an empty lot of paved meadows. I find asphalt charming sometimes, when rain seeps past the bubbling tar, through the open pores, when the sleek black rivers look like wispy mirrors, reflecting flickering street lights and syrupy signals.

I spent the day yesterday, with thumbed over pages in my hands. I read a book my mother lent to me, Stiff. A life of cadavers. I could hardly put it down when Haeleigh asked me to come pick her up from the station. An accomplishment though, to finish a book that wasn’t posted in the syllabus. It was nice to read. To drink tea and read. To sit in a porcelain basket of steaming water and honey scented bubbles, my legs draped over the sides to protect the creamy pages from getting wet while I soaked my flesh. To lie upside down, my hair spilling over the white petals, book in hand, reading pages, turning pages, feeling pages. I missed it, more than I care to admit. It started raining, again, and I watched the lot across the street magically spin itself into something beautiful again. I heard rain on the rooftop, strange because I live on the third floor of a four story building. My imagination, perhaps had run away with me, or maybe the upstairs residents were methodically dropping rice on the floorboards. I switched the buzzing television off when Haeleigh’s eyes had closed and quiet breaths escaped her lips. I stretched in bed like a tired morning cat, arching my back. I listened to cicadas play their tiny violas, and fell asleep, in the skyscraper wasteland, the corners of my lips tugging up into a smile.