our summers were lazy.
they were, half drunken water bottles strewn on the floor and a fan with a crick in its neck. unable to pan properly
they were, cheek pressed to mattress summers, looking up at a bumpy white ceilings with stars in our eyes, my mind would paint pictures there. i'd fall asleep to the sound of my day dreams and a static filled radio only to wake up wishing I was in one.
we didn't have cable.
they were, wishing the AC would work.
an opened balcony door and a warm breeze pushing laughs in from outside where the kids I couldn't play with were.
waiting for mama to leave.
searching the couch for change, and going to the convenience store with fifty cents in my pocket and a smile on my face because finally, finally, i was outside.
they were sticky fingers and red tongues. purple bruises on my shins.
holding freezes as we walked up the hill to our apartment. mama would kill us if she knew we were outside.
we were escorted by a yawning sun just about to fall asleep. It's tongue was red too before it closed its mouth. peach, plum clouds.
the sound of you humming a church song.
the sound of cars driving.
the sound of rustling leaves.
our summers
they were not the best,
they weren't the worst, either.
