Jonathan Allen Guerra
I think it’s true what Margaret said about how a whole summer can happen in an hour and crack open over us like a storm. So sudden in its wonder, and strange. The piano hanging weightless above the floor. The clutter of cups in the kitchen. The wind washing tidal through the branches and, later, the crickets whispering their reminders to be here, now.
Summer has a way, doesn’t she. Of making eyes and leaving us beside ourselves. Of bringing everything we need in its own good time. Of wandering us back into dreaming again, and not keeping it simple. And if it’s true that all of us must go some day from this great beauty that we are falling through, then let this be the beginning of that sweet hereafter whose sound is the same as days on the lake, and heat-worn dogs drooping happy on the porch, and someone calling our name on their way down the hill. And let us step out into it, trembling though we may be.
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