august evening

she traipses to the garden, barefoot, shawl draped over her shoulders. how could it be, here, in august, evenings cool enough to request a shawl, to invite an open window?  closed up in that house, on artificial, air-‘conditioned’ life support, she’d almost forgotten how she loved late summer serenades of cicada, katydid and cricket, though when she threw open the suffocating sash two nights ago, they rushed back to her across the sill like it was they who’d been restrained, their voices held back by too many airtight walls.

when she’d awakened in the morning, the window was closed tight. he said it was the cricket, kept waking him all night, thinking it was the telephone. now, how can that be?

so much vibrancy tonight! how could THAT be, here, in august, colors vivid enough to taste— clementine, bubblegum, grape— she plucks them one by one like fresh raspberries from the vine, the earth beneath her feet still juicy from the thunder showers at dawn.

even the sky is alive, its tummy suddenly rumbling for attention, rolling in unexpectedly to wash the berries in her hands before she gobbles them all up, showering the already quenched blossoms. she carries them inside, fills yet another vase with their delight.

a bottle of wine next to the open window, she waits for clouds to clear. the rain, softer than the morning’s torrent, adds to the rhythm of the serenade. the sky lights up in concert like some orchestrated light show at the park. oh, how can she keep from singing?

he is out for the night, and though she loves him dearly for his differentness, it is good to be alone tonight, to receive this crooning, to feel this juicy ripeness, to open the window, remember who she is.

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