This chilly night.
The sky a dark, churning purplish haze.
Clouds that part and glow from the yellow highway lights.
A looming tree that swallows the shadows I make.
The sight of Tonia’s tail, slipping away as quickly as I’d see her.
Drifts of the bougainvillea flowers, paperlike, pink, and pretty, draped across the hammock.
Purple in the night.
All of this sends me back
To when I was younger. More naive. A girl sweetened by anyone’s praise. And hardened by achievement.
Back to the girl who carried her heart in her throat.
Back when I meant what I said. And said all that I meant.
Sometimes in my nightly walks, I’d step on a bougainvillea petal by accident.
Nothing but a street light to see the sad pink thing on the ground.
Nothing but the cold forcing me forward to chase the chill out.
Tonight, I looked up at the sky.
A wave of memories of happy evenings spent under it.
Of how at last, I’ve returned.
To the flowers, and my dog, and the pacing back and forth before the three-striped flag. The mosquitoes chasing me. I feel my face make a lazy grin at all the sensations I’ve lived before.
Yet made new again.
Wistful of the “again and again”s and “dang it, I stepped on a petal!”
Wistful of a girl from before.
I almost feel s—
Tonia’s shape reappears in the dark.
A chubby white blob awaiting many pats.
And so I do what I do best.
