But every summer since, when the magnolias drop their petals and the air grows thick and heavy, I think about that porch. That silence. That impossible, sleeping closeness. And I wonder if she remembers whispering those words, or if the dream swallowed them whole.
No lights. No fan. No excuse to stay in my assigned room, a closet-sized box of heat and stale pillows. -ENG- Sleeping Cousin -RJ353254-
Her fingers were warm. Light as a fallen petal. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t open her eyes. In that half-dream state, perhaps she thought the chaise was wider, or that the warmth beside her was just the memory of a body. But every summer since, when the magnolias drop
It was the summer of the broken air conditioner, the summer the magnolia trees dropped their petals like crumpled love letters onto the driveway, and the summer I learned that a sleeping person is a locked room. And I wonder if she remembers whispering those
So I stayed silent. I stayed still. And when the power flickered back on an hour later—the hum of the refrigerator, the distant click of a lamp—she drew her hand back slowly, turned onto her side, and kept sleeping.
Minutes passed. Or an hour. Time had turned syrupy. A moth bumbled against the screen, frantic and soft. I watched her breathe. In. Out. In. Out. The rhythm began to sync with my own heart.