I am a mass of memories bending and clapping and whipping in the wind. Sweeping cheeks then lunging into the place where sky meets cloud, striped this time — blue, white, blue — an animal unto itself. The woods speak of these, too. Spindly trunks in rows like soldiers. They don’t crack a smile, only reach upwards, naked but topped with last of leaves. Listen up, she said, strange like the day you were born, sunny side up in my womb, you came out smiling like you’d been here a thousand times before. Sorry? I said. She repeated it back but I still couldn’t make it out. Sun in eyes, eyes in sun. Wind gusts make it feel like 24 degrees, they said. Wind gusts make leaves dance and, with sun on their backs, make moving shadows on living room floors. I call it art. You collapse on the couch. I’m not liking what I liked, you said, but why would you? Things change. As for me, I don’t find too much funny but beautiful? Yes.
