Year of the Dog
That was the summer I recall the most when, now at dinner parties with other like-minded couples, we discuss the foggy territory of our young adult lives. That pristine moment in my late twenties when the slipperiness of college days seceded, and I was left with an invigorating independence. I recall the uncomfortable feeling of being underground and waiting for a subway. I remember bike rides, an unexpected nose bleed while walking with a friend in the park. We were talking in circles, my mind momentarily entranced by the way light dances on the surface of the reflecting pool. I felt the wetness. I brought my hand to my nose to reveal bright crimson across my calloused fingers. Hours later I spied a red skirt wrapped tightly around tanned legs. The images locked together in my mind and triggered a mirage of lust. Now my son scrapes his elbow on a tree and as I apply Neosporin I think of these things. These flashes of red. You kept a single peony on your windowsill. It was withered with tissue thin petals littering the floor. By August it seemed like the brittle scab of a brilliant cut. I dab at my son’s elbow trying to ease the rush of blood. He is a good sport. I hold the peroxide on too long and he says, ‘Come on, dad.’ And I think: yeah, come on.