22 August 2012


The other night the air was still warm at midnight. I laid in bed with the window wide open so the breeze --  what breeze there was -- crossed my bare legs. It reminded me of spending the night at the house of my mother's parents during the summer. They did not have air conditioning so we could sleep with the windows open, with the sky dark outside and the earth cooling down but the room still warm inside. I loved the encroaching sensation of the night air, the shallow rise and fall of the curtain when there was a breeze, the night sounds of crickets, of passing cars, of other insects humming their summer's hum, the smell of the room that was familiar, but not mine --a closed-up, drowsy, wooden smell, soporific, like a baseball game. And there probably was a baseball game on somewhere, on the radio, and the sound of it came through the open window too; that announcer's drawl and the drone of the crowd in the background adding to the texture of the night, along with the beds that sagged in the middle and the cotton sheets so smooth with washing and age, that the embroidery on the pillowcase was no more than a faint scar...

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