norwood avenue

Seven years old- nine o’clock at night in July. Freshly bathed and so tiny, swimming in the softest blue pajama dress and standing barefoot on the small, warm, concrete stoop in front of the house- watching the sun dip behind the trees turning the whole world pink and orange. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight- red sky at morning, sailors heed warning. Mom brought ice cream sandwiches- the cheap kind, rectangular and creamy with chocolate cookie that turned to sweet superglue on my fingers. I stepped off into the grass, dry and brittle to spin in circles and chase fireflies that were beginning to rise in hazy waves from the ground. They were drunk with summer and slow. I was sticky with ice cream and clumsy, but I caught them in my cupped hands. Dad would pretend to eat them and I would let them go. I couldn’t stand to see them caged.