Cat’s face sticks out the window as we drive through the underwater light of a Sunday afternoon.
Remember the sweet fat yellow of a rented bicycle propped against a barn board shack, the rippled blonde of the beach before it; earth-from-space blue of the ocean beyond.
We are pretending to work our way towards something — obviously we should be back at school or work or wherever it is we belong — but we don’t know what the something is, let alone whether it’s something we even want or can reasonably expect to ever achieve.
But it’s ok I guess because we’re just pretending. It doesn’t cost anything, and no one gets hurt.
The sky is an upside down swimming pool of musical memories. The wind pummels Cat’s face like the boisterous approval of make-believe gods.
(2017)