The weather is nice today, just how I prefer, really: 70 and breezy. It is late afternoon toward evening in the hour when everything slows and there is always some water or chirping to be heard and some interesting light to be seen. Everyone looks good at this time of day as the prospects of the noontime are complete and plans for night dilly-dally. It”ôs that hitch in the pendulum between right and left where you hover... just, hover”¶ In the summer, this point of day always seems endless and is dear to me.
Every bit my childhood, it is the time of day that recalls my parents walking up the driveway after a long chat with the neighbors across the street. It is my Dad shouting, “Look at the big fireball in the sky, girls!”Ě in a funny captain”ôs voice as we turn gaze to discover an orange sun sitting bold against a 'scape of mandarin and marmalade clouds that burn above a line of green, that same line of green that is now restrained by so many power lines. This is always the time just before, during or just after dinner, depending on what time your family eats, so bikes are strewn in front yards in hopes of being picked up once again before nightfall. It is hard to find these moments in this city. Maybe they are uniquely suburban and rural. Regardless, moments of this sort are missed this time of year, even when the light and lazy of Los Angeles comes close. Especially when the light and lazy of Los Angeles comes close. It is also the time when C.Sto and I fail to amuse one another while waiting for our neighbor-friends to finish dinner. Our overflowing energy will result in a fight. You know, the sort that leaves scratches and torn hair behind”¶
She had the longest damn nails. I still have marks: Pale silver slivers here and there in half-moon shapes on my right arm. And the one on my right hand, just below my thumb.
Of course, I deserved them.
We were worse than boys.
(I probably still am.)
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