SUMMER SNOW I never thought I would be this old. But we were young once, like everyone is young once. Sometimes when the wind is cool I shut my eyes and again we are lying in the grass in her front yard. I think it was in 1990, and it had to be at least October, because there were yellow leaves all around us, and her pale cheeks were red from the cold. We were so close I could feel the heat of her exhaled breath on my face. Only inches from each other’s lips, we are forever fixed in this position, like two, separate worlds, who are always on the verge of falling into the deepest parts of each other. Our bodies were nearly imperceptible, only faint brushstrokes, captured in once vibrant, now faded oils on the vast emptiness of an unfinished canvas, forever poised on the edge of fate’s crumbling precipice. “Ever wonder what you will look like when you’re older?” she asked. “Not really.” “I see myself as a tall woman who always wears dresses and high heels.” “You’re almost fifteen and you’re only five-foot-two, I don’t see you growing much more,” I said. “I mean, I know I won’t be tall, but it’s just how I see myself.” “I don’t suppose I see myself at all.” “Maybe it’s too scary.” she said. “What?” “You could be afraid of what you’ll see. I am,” she said. “Whatever you look like, I will still love you,” I said. She lay back in the grass. Her hair was long and straight and it spilled around her as if she were underwater. I didn’t tell her, but I could see even beyond all that. When she is old, and after everyone else is gone, I am with her. This is how I will remember her last years. The windows always open, even in winter. The high, coiffured ceilings added an operatic quality to her normally soft voice, and though most of the time nothing but meaningless intonations, her words were like lyrics to songs only she could hear. The way she drew pictures of herself in charcoal and hid them in drawers throughout the sunlit rooms, sometimes not finding them for years; and then shaking off the black dust like lost shadows as she fell apart piece by piece, her small hands always stained, pale and delicate as the dogwood petals that had whitened the trees overnight like summer snow. As we lay there, silently, both of us were imagining many futures, with or without the other, as the last golden days of Indian summer were slowly, and almost imperceptibly giving way to the late autumn chill that moved through my body like electricity, a feeling that often comes back to me on days like this. -Adam Stanley is a poet turned novelist. His debut novel, All My Sins Remembered, is now available on Kindle and will soon be released in paperback. He lives in Atlanta, GA.
Posted on: Thu, 30 Jan 2014 11:49:12 +0000
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