This is how it began. Sunlight glistened in the underside of the Silver Maple leaves, and shimmered in the serrated edges of the willowy Chinese elm trees.
Strands of light encapsulated my sister’s long, deep black hair leaping off her shoulder. Under a summer sun refusing to die, our lithe brown bodies sprinted.
Last night, the wind bent down in swooshes, blowing the world away, but now everything is radiant and high pitched like clouds in a child’s voice.
I raised my hand and its shadow trembled over the black minnows in the lagoon. They dart beyond the seaweeds, and my reflection elongated over the surface.
This is how it ends. I carry my head in a black bag draped over my shoulder, it recounts childhood days spent living in the Village, days textured with living.
