TRY TO REMEMBER

one day in early July

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on

Try to remember the taste of the night, thick with moisture and fireflies, and the steam off the lights strung from cedar to cedar.

Or the down of rabbit’s paws as they leap, awash in your headlights, stopping to meet your eyes like an old friend.

Try to remember the slick of the rain, firm and fast against your head, and the soft of the soil as you walked, barefoot through warm puddles, in pajamas, down the village street.

“You’re the town crazy lady” your children call as they pad along beside you, trusting.

And you beam. Yes, yes my babies. We can be free if we choose to.

Try to remember the last bite of chocolate, rich, fudgy— against the crisp of the cone, wafer-thin, like air—the ones you drove into the night to bring home at bedtime.

Or the warmth of your son’s lips, soft and swift as he wakes you in the morning, unrushed, summer’s gift.

Try to remember the heat that crept around bare legs like a hug the night the air clung to windows and skin, and how the tips of your hair dripped a night swim down your back, careless, like ages past.

Try to remember the weight of his hand on your thighs while he slept, how you laid there— too warm to stay, too grateful to move.

Or the prayer that parted your lips—thank you.

Try to remember your daughter’s voice as she sang, head turned out the window, and the sight of her braids, split from a crooked line at the nape of her neck as she sat next to you, speeding along, 50 miles to nowhere.

This—this is July.

xx S

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