A reminiscence landscaped through time; peopled with friends lying down in the prickly grass attempting to escape the viscous Memphis heat. Dust and pollen buoyed along slanted columns of light; revealing the soft fuzz of summer air. I can’t recall anyone’s name nor their smooth as bread-box butter facial features but, there is a certain redolence to this scene like the feeling of holding a polaroid picture at the edges of its white border as it contains another facet of your grandmother— when old age and diabetes hadn’t crippled her lean and freedom fighting legs and when she swayed her hips to devil’s music as she now calls it. But time has made the colors muted and faded similar to the blunted saliency of these memories gradually easing from my grip.

In this space of silence known as memory, everyone’s face appears as sun; remembering how we would stare up at the the sky allowing our imaginations to rush forward, tumbling backwards and forwards on unfixed potentialities all the while getting drunk off of the mildly sweet nectar of the honey suckle flower. I don’t even know how we acquired this knowledge that it was safe to eat. But we had it.

We would talk and joke about nonsensical things which were important to malleable minds still unmarred with the chaotic beauty of society. And after having our fill of nature’s back yard drink we’d go to the fields searching for something new, cool, alive; some experience we had never known.

Most days we would find nothing but each time was always an adventure. If we didn’t find any lizards or accidentally unearth the remains of beloved pets, as we had hoped to find lost treasures, we’d find our way to the hills near the rain ditch where we would climb the nameless standing trees or walk across the felled trunks pretending the ground was an ocean filled with monstrous beasts. Or we’d swing from the vines— jumping off at the peak of our trajectory either landing on our feet smiling proudly or flat on our butts with pain and embarrassment and the surrounding friends laughing loudly.

It seemed those days would never end.

It was one of the happiest most fearless times.

Then before summer was over, my dad said we were moving; which would become a habit.

That was the end of the honey suckle.

And…childhood.

Prose Piece, 2022

A reminiscence landscaped through time; peopled with friends lying down in the prickly grass attempting to escape the viscous Memphis heat. Dust and pollen buoyed along slanted columns of light; revealing the soft fuzz of summer air. I can’t recall anyone’s name nor their smooth as bread-box butter facial features but, there is a certain redolence to this scene like the feeling of holding a polaroid picture at the edges of its white border as it contains another facet of your grandmother— when old age and diabetes hadn’t crippled her lean and freedom fighting legs and when she swayed her hips to devil’s music as she now calls it. But time has made the colors muted and faded similar to the blunted saliency of these memories gradually easing from my grip.

In this space of silence known as memory, everyone’s face appears as sun; remembering how we would stare up at the the sky allowing our imaginations to rush forward, tumbling backwards and forwards on unfixed potentialities all the while getting drunk off of the mildly sweet nectar of the honey suckle flower. I don’t even know how we acquired this knowledge that it was safe to eat. But we had it.

We would talk and joke about nonsensical things which were important to malleable minds still unmarred with the chaotic beauty of society. And after having our fill of nature’s back yard drink we’d go to the fields searching for something new, cool, alive; some experience we had never known.

Most days we would find nothing but each time was always an adventure. If we didn’t find any lizards or accidentally unearth the remains of beloved pets, as we had hoped to find lost treasures, we’d find our way to the hills near the rain ditch where we would climb the nameless standing trees or walk across the felled trunks pretending the ground was an ocean filled with monstrous beasts. Or we’d swing from the vines— jumping off at the peak of our trajectory either landing on our feet smiling proudly or flat on our butts with pain and embarrassment and the surrounding friends laughing loudly.

It seemed those days would never end.

It was one of the happiest most fearless times.

Then before summer was over, my dad said we were moving; which would become a habit.

That was the end of the honey suckle.

And…childhood.

Prose Piece, 2022