In air turned a dirty grey dusk, the scent of it tacky on my lips and skin, voice ring.
Counting. Counting down.
Come find me!
Where are you?
The dull gassy hum of streets lights balance against the warm brick of our house, our home, as we’ve made it. That sound, the grass through their toes, the laughter which bounces, terribly naughty against the neighbours house, spills in through my windows as this gauzy late summer night begins it’s drawl away. Perhaps the last summer night of her 8th year, her 6th. Perhaps the night they both build memories that become the stories and bedrock of their futures. Perhaps they’ll parse in in the smell of chocolate cupcakes, years from now. They’ll paint it in Venice, sing it on stages from here.
Draw the futures of their children against it.
Vivian, where are you? Vivian!
The house is lit, and welcoming against the coming night. The woods behind are darkening, turning from friendly caves to malevolent holes. I can hear Rosalyn, tethered between, wanting her sister, her heart arching to look under the maples and yet still young enough to see the orcs and goblins and child eaters hidden within, whispering.
Come find us.
Only this dank falling night can hold them, whispers, plaited promises. She yells for her sister, song on the wind, voice aloft.
I tell her, sweetly, kindly, to come wait, everyone has to come to home base eventually.
She won’t be moved. She stands, knee high to the clover turning to winter in the ditch, waiting.