Posted on: June 13th, 2009 Summer Nights

by Meagan Kane

We went dancing most nights, when the air was crisp and full of fireflies, when the lights were bright. Your favorite place was that little settlement off what used to be Highway 51; you loved how bright it shone, a burning coal, against the mountains that surrounded it.

Do you remember those early days still? The sky choked, and everything stank, and nothing stayed built for very long. We all danced then, because it was the only thing to be done.

You especially loved the fringes of the beating, pulsating crowd — you’d shot something clichéd about dancing on the edge, and I’d giggle  in that way you always thought meant I was pleased, when really it meant I was afraid.

Then one night you slipped your slim self too far past the warm glow, and you didn’t come back for two weeks, and when you did it was with a limp because they had taken a foot, as tax.

You looked me in the eyes, took the pipe out of my hands, and said it was time to get serious about starting over.
Houses stayed built. The lights faded back to a complacent grey. We got along.

Sometimes, when you’re not looking, I stamp to rhythms I can barely remember in the cold raked dirt of our backyard, and wait for sunflowers to grow.

Filed under: bad-ass, stories

--Brain Harvest