Summer of 1958

By Christine Smith Lloyd

Today, 

We crouch on the front porch in a small sliver of shade, 

Watching the cracked sidewalk moving in a heat-laden mirage, 

Picking at yesterday’s mosquito bites and blackberry bush slashes, 

Barefoot and sunburned, 

Squinting out into the blinding whiteness of the day. 

We edge our toes past the hot margin where shadow meets light.

Ants scutter into sidewalk cracks, 

We smash them with our toes as they venture toward our shade. 

The heat sits heavy on the front yard, 

So hot it paralyzes even the smallest noises of the day. 

Watermelon seeds are stuck hard to the porch, 

Left over from last night. 

Last night, 

We’d tread pajama-clad through the grass to lawn chairs at dusk, 

We’d slobbered over thick red slabs of watermelon, 

Spitting and dribbling the seeds at each other, 

Giggling, restless, squirmy in our plastic lawn chairs. 

We’d leaned way back in our chairs, 

As the first stars began to punch holes in heaven’s curtains 

When the front yard finally exhaled a breath of cool air across our faces, 

When fireflies hung suspended, 

Littering the sky in orange and yellow, 

Some close…some far away. 

We’d heard mama’s low laugh and the clink of supper’s dishes against the sink. 

And now today, 

We sit scrunched backwards into the side of the house, 

Out of the heat, 

Hearing only the lonely drone of a bumblebee in the far distance. 

We wonder what to do until our slice of shade gets a little bigger. 

We wonder how to pass the time, 

As we wait for the night to invite us back out into the yard again.