Late Summer Fruit
A sensory distillation of childhood. Prose and a plea.
Childhood is sweet for many, but not for all. Shortly after this beautiful memory of childhood, everything changed for me. At the end of this brief work of sensory prose, I plead for hope and help for children in need.
I remember being a child, wrestling on the grass in the front lawn on a molten July evening.
The sun is sinking, but it beats viciously in retreat. The air trembles as if in waves from an open furnace.
Eyes level with scorched-tip grass, I marvel as fireflies began to blink in … then out. One by one.
I leap to chase them, pouncing, collecting them in a margarine tub with slits cut in the translucent lid.
Brown grass and humidity assault the bare skin of my chest. I scratch, fighting fierce itching.
I sink to my knees, panting.
Mom calls us to the porch. “Come on kids! You too, Jamie. Let’s go.”
She has slices of ice-cold, sugary watermelon waiting for us on white paper plates.
I sit on a lawn chair in cut-off jeans, cooling my insides, spitting seeds into the grass, and watching the fireflies dance, mirroring the stars that are just winking in.
