Ethel called.
Those days are gone, darlin'. Ethel was all things, all seasons. She always dropped her g's, though I never heard a reasonable explanation. She would tell me it was somethin' about nothin' and skip to another consideration, hopscotch, and a jump, slipping through my obstinate fingers.
You’re a liar, I said. I've told her that before, and she'd reject my anger and accusation with a wave of her hand, gently smiling, serene, and kind, silken eyes. I could see her reflection in the clockface on the nightstand in my tiny bedroom—she was near and far, here and somewhere, and I was soothed and alarmed. The faucet I never fixed dripped painstakingly in the bathroom, a sliver of light soaking a swath of carpet, a path to my bare feet.
That can’t be the truth. I still smell those years. I feel them on my knees, the rough denim, and the fresh mud. All of us were filthy, and we loved it, the crawling. The swing set, do you recollect how we flew? Those birds, green-eyed and envious, clung to the trees, and the clouds were so hospitable, gracious, and the blue behind them? All that blue, it was endless. Tell me all of that was not genuine? I was there. It’s under my fingernails…
Ethel’s reply was clear, firm, and forgiving. Oh, my sweet, silly boy, it was all true. It was just as you remember. But you only recall some of it. It was not always summer.
But it was…
It was somethin' certainly, but now it is nothin'. Where you goin’ next, honey? Do you know where you goin’ next? And Ethel hung up, vaporized, my fingers weak and wanting.
And inside, it was just me.
Outside, the world clawed at my thin window.