Long Lost Summer Blues.

I sit beside the fire and think
Of people long ago
And people that will see a world
That I shall never know

But all the while I sit and think
Of times there were before
I listen for returning feet
And voices at the door

- J.R.R. Tolkien

We used to all sleep on the same bed in the sweltering summer. There were only two bedrooms; the electric in the house was old; there were hardly any outlets. One per room. In the 21st century. I was poor then/ just like now/ but I’d bring you kids into my room to sleep in the cool. Charlie was in his crib at first, right beside my bed, but me and Henry and Violet, we’d spread out on the king mattress and just lay there smiling tired smiles in the thin cool air of the air-conditioned room. We had just that one AC. There were none in the other bedroom and none downstairs.

Tell me now where those days went? Tell me now how I lost your little hand in mine when we were falling asleep and I would open my eyes and look at the top of your head/ your sandy blond hair/ your kid curls/ little pieces of stick and leaf all twisted into the locks near your scalp. Your pale white scalp. Your childish head just laying there hiding your sweet little brain. How do we just turn around and there goes all that? Now what? You are older with a deeper voice that makes me think I am talking to another person altogether? But am I? If your voice goes all deep does that mean you are changed too? I can’t imagine it. I can’t figure it out. Like: none of it.