a late june evening in rochester, massachusetts
EAGER MINDS, ELASTIC BODIES, THE VESTIGES OF PLAY STILL STURDY IN THIS STRONGHOLD.
Art by Jenna d’Arcy
It’s June, which means mom is making her blueberry pudding recipe, fruit splotches bubbling beneath dessert stretches of sugarbread mirage. The evening is warm like a smile, and the children are playing backyard wiffleball with a village intensity; Mike Kennefic, Connor Dougan, and Harry Smith rounding out the local little league’s most exalted eleven-year-olds, plastic yellow bats cutting through careful summer air with a woosh! and a whiff! and an audible sigh.
Knees are blazing green with grass stains. Chests rise and fall between sprints and shouts, contests and jeers. The insides of spry fingers shine with chalky salt grains and streaks of butter, the only remaining relics from bright ears of sweet corn. And the lone method utilized when chowing down on logs of steaming gold? Why, with pointy elbows propped up on dirty glass countertops, of course, proper form of the least importance in a kingdom that emphasizes speed and jubilee above all else.
Eager minds, elastic bodies, the vestiges of play still sturdy in this stronghold. The sun sets but the verve never falters. Moonlight will do, faint blue illuminating plastic white ball zipping past expectant and unexpectant heads alike.
It’s June, which means school will be out soon, and summer holds infinite wonder and significant mystery, all hidden behind the joy of today, the stillness of tonight, the impossible shadow of tomorrow.
Fat fireflies float lazily around the slowly pulsing backyard, globs of plump orange flickering in the absence of light. Mason jars are readied. Nimble hands are cupped. The game is put on hold, for a moment.
Sometimes the sun shines at night—you just have to catch it.
