Heat

There's something about the heat that gets to you, the feel of damp on your skin, the weight of the sun pressing you deeper inside your own body. It's magnificent, this heat, like I woke up on a new planet, one where I burn and people pour out of their houses to sweat and drink and congratulate each other on the newness of it all. You'd think we've never known sun before. In three days, my dish soap has bleached clear, my toes are pink and my daughter hides inside, no longer having any memory of days spent in sand on the sea, or wearing her swimsuit as cold waves washed over her, warmed only by the glowing radiance above. She's never known otherwise, she's a rain-child.

Today was spent on a front-porch swing, dirty feet brushing the ground and pushing me off again, back up into the air, down, hair stuck to my forehead with sweat. Tall glasses of water. A cigarette. Lyra on her microphone, dancing, wanting me to clap my hands to the music and me just pushing myself off again with my feet, swinging back hard while she dances and the dog pants under a tree. Our tree, the one where the pink petals have been bleached white and curled by the sun. Everything roasting.

Today, life begins again.