Giggles, corn chips, a pop song spicing my lips. We tumble from your car. You take my hand, leading. We crunch through leaves twigs, hop downed branches, trace a meandering trail. A crumpled house, a cabin, plywood leaning. You spring up the slanted steps.
Wait, I know this place.
You pull me inside. Faded mural: archery, horseshoes. Macrame hangs from pegs by the windows.
How did you—
You told me.
Had we been smoking?
I’m eight nine ten, fallen from the top bunk. Headache. The cool hand of my counselor, soothing, repairing, loving. Me. She smells of the ocean. Her fingerprints dot my forehead. Now I am little star special.
You draw me to a window. The lake lap laps, like that final day. Clinging to her safety vest—yellow, smoky—then fading, briny, into the family car. Now your arms—soft strong—gather. I won’t let you fall. Ever. You produce a ring. Join me. Now later always. We mingle breath lips teeth, gristle and bone. This is yes. We become a constellation. Together we shine.
Katherine Gleason (she/her) has published stories in a number of journals, including: Cheap Pop, Derelict Lit, Every Day Fiction, HAD, Jellyfish Review, Lonesome, and Tiny Molecules. Her nonfiction credits include a bunch of nonfiction books, which, sadly, are now out of print. She lives with a bossy tabby cat and is happy to serve her feline overlord. Learn more: www.katherinegleason.com